


I Wish You Spring

by LeandraLocke, saturnmeetsmercury (jarofhearts)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fix-It, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-03-19 21:47:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 125,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3625413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeandraLocke/pseuds/LeandraLocke, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jarofhearts/pseuds/saturnmeetsmercury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the The Battle at the Triskelion, Steve searches for his previously presumed dead best friend with Sam's help. When he finally finds him, Bucky is lost, with barely any memories of his previous life and little sense of identity, but Steve is sure that, with time and care, things are going to work out. Eventually he has to realise that, without help, this might remain only a naively hopeful thought. But he’s prepared to do whatever it takes to help Bucky, and they start on a journey to discover past, present, and who they have become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We started writing this fic last September, with several other small fics and then jarofhearts' uni thesis coming in between. Now, we only have an epilogue left to write and our lovely beta-readers Indigo and Fridaysbloom (many thanks to you, guys!!) to work on the 24 chapters of our story. You can expect frequent updates and DEFINITELY a finished fic with, as we hope, a good balance between angst and fluff, some humour and romance ;-) 
> 
> We hope you enjoy it. If you do, please let us know.
> 
> Update: We modified the chapter order because of that problem that our actual chapter 1 was counted as chapter 2 (since we had initially posted the prologue separately). Now, prologue + Chapter 1 are in Chapter 1, and the following chapters are in correct order with the correct titles automatically given by AO3.

**Prologue**

 

Nothing in the world made sense.

It was nothing like before when all it had been was people wearing different clothes or driving different cars or playing with new trinkets. Nothing about that was important, and he had been briefed on the things he needed to know, the things that would be helpful or an obstacle.

No, this was different. It was his mind. His _mind_ wasn’t right.

Some part of him was still screaming at him to return. He had to. Report. Repair. Reset. But he hadn’t completed his mission, he had acted _against_ it. And going against orders was not allowed under any circumstances. There would be consequences. But he had to return. He had to because…

Where once there had been silence, focus, nothing but his mission,  there was now a frazzled mind, shattered into a thousand pieces. And it wasn’t quiet anymore, never, not even for a second. It was all over the place.

He had no idea what year it was. Sometimes it was like someone was driving a spike right through his skull and everything went blindingly white and he was forced to his knees until it was over. He saw things, things that might or might not be real. It was hard to tell sometimes. Most of the time. His shoulder, the weak, flesh one felt like it was on fire when he had to set it straight after the dislocation. Even his metal arm was aching like a phantom limb. And he just walked, with no real idea where he was going.

He had to go back.

Report. Repair. Reset.

He didn’t _want_ to go back.

There was this cold burn in his chest whenever the image of the man on the bridge, on the helicarrier, came unbidden. A burn that made him want to go back and kill him; because it had been him, he had made everything fracture. Finish the job. Finish it and go back… not home. There was no home for him, and he couldn’t remember ever having had one. Just _back_. To them. There was nothing else he knew and something old and insistent kept hammering in the back of his mind that he _had_ to.

Mission report.

The man on the bridge who had derailed everything. Who had given him a name, and had looked at him as if he…

He had sat for hours under a group of bushes by the riverside and repeated that name in his mind, over and over and over and over. Sometimes it felt like it cracked his skull open, and he felt sick and weak.

It got worse when the second day was over. His skin started to crawl, sheens of sweat covered him, and he was shaking. It was making him want to curl into a ball and cough up everything from his already empty stomach. He knew why. He wasn't returning, didn't get what he needed.

Report. Repair. Reset.

He stayed where he was. Sometimes he didn’t know if he was awake or asleep. Either way his mind constantly dredged up images, flashes of things he found no connection to. Sometimes, when his whole chest was burning he dragged himself to the river and drank a few gulps before crawling back into the shelter of the bushes and trees. Maybe he was feverish, but he had no idea why or how he even knew.

This shouldn’t happen. _Malfunction. Report back, report back, report back._

Rain came pouring down from a dark nightsky and he was lying on his back while the water soaked him through and he shivered, hot and cold. The rain stopped at some point and he blinked slowly, numbers and words on his lips, a name, forming each syllable silently, and for a moment he saw a face appear above him, and he wanted to smile in relief. But then the rain started falling again and it was dark and cold and he was alone.

He had no sense of time. Sometimes it was light, sometimes it was dark, but he was still sick and weak. So weak. He tried to drag himself up sometimes and go back because he needed to. He had to give his mission report, his failed mission, had to…

No. He wasn’t going back. He didn’t know what he was, or _who_ he was, or where he came from. But he was someone. Not just something. _He was someone._ He was.

He didn’t know how that thought had come and it went against everything he knew. It was _terrifying_.

Eventually, instead of dying, he got better. He wasn’t sure what to think about that nor how much time had passed. One day or five, he couldn’t tell. The light was burning in his eyes but he stopped shaking and heaving and he could finally drag himself up to sit against a tree and watch the clouds pass by.

There were still these images, some of them connected to feelings that came like horrible tidal waves and threatened to choke him. Sometimes he hoped they’d finally find him and end it, end all of this, and sometimes he crawled deeper into the bushes so that they wouldn’t.

Because he needed to find out. He needed to know.

Needed to know who that person was whose name was constantly hammering in his mind as if it were his own. And the man on the bridge, the one in the water. He needed to find out about him.

Eventually he wasn’t sick anymore. Nothing was trying to claw out his guts anymore and he could finally get back to his feet. He staggered into the river, clothes and everything, and let the water wash it all out. But he knew he needed something else; something to cover his arm, or they’d find him in the blink of an eye. So he went in the dead of the night. He walked and walked until the light came out, and he knew he had to remain unseen. So he found some clothes, stole them, but who was counting? And then he wandered through the city with a jacket, his hands buried in his pockets, a baseball cap on his head, and a stomach that was gnawing, aching. Another malfunction.

He ignored it and walked on. That day was warmer than all the others had been so far, and when he passed a restaurant, people sitting and eating outside, suddenly, the smell of food hit him like a vicious punch to his stomach. There was no ignoring it after. The first time he tried to eat something his insides rebelled and he heaved it back up. The second time as well. The third time he kept it down at least a little longer.

He figured out what was easier to stomach and what was impossible. It got better.

He picked up whatever issues he found of newspapers. The first time he saw the man’s face again, the one that sent a pang of recognition through him even though something in his mind was screaming, he stopped and stared for a long time. Something horrible was clawing inside him, and he remembered things the man had said before having plummeted down into the river.

From there his face was _everywhere_. In newspapers and on TVs, on posters and pictures. _Captain America_ , and SHIELD, and Hydra.

Sometimes it made his head hurt, as if something was trying to crawl out of it. And then there were more images, vague and nonsensical. But…

_But I knew him._

To go see the exhibition made sense. It made him dizzy being there, looking at faces and objects and clothes and so much information that it was impossible to take in. The man was everywhere. Captain America. Steve Rogers.

And he was there too. His face. At least he was vaguely sure that it was actually his. Just different. Handsome, smiling. A _person_. And he stood there and stared, and read every single word of each line of text that wanted to tell him that the man on the bridge, _Steve Rogers_ , had told him nothing but the truth.

In some other life he had been Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, 3-2-5-5-7-0-3-8, from Brooklyn. It was the year 2014.

There was still _nothing_ that made sense.

 

* * *

 

 

** Chapter 1 **

 

“What about that box? You wanna unpack it as well?”

Steve looked up into his friend’s face and back at the shelf, the larger compartments were filled to the brim with records already. “If I knew where to put them,” he replied, wondering whether it made any sense to reorganise the whole array. The shelf had three upper rows tall enough for books and there was still enough space, but Steve didn’t really have the patience for such an endeavour at the moment. The whole move - simple as it had been and necessary as it was - already took too much of his time and energy away. Time and energy that could have been used on much more pressing matters. But with the press and various government officials trying to get something out of him on a daily basis a change in location had been the smartest choice.  

“Man, that’s an amazing collection,” Sam said as he rummaged through a box he had just opened. One of the records in particular seemed to strike his interest. He took it out to look at it more closely, letting his fingers run over the well-preserved cover. “These would’ve made my grandpa’s eyes water. He was a big fan of Billie Holliday.”

“I bet,” Steve replied, a small, joyless smile on his lips. “We’d be roughly the same age, I guess.”  He tried not to think of how he had unpacked the gift on his twenty-first birthday. Bucky had only gotten the single that day - one day before its official release - because he'd had a friend working at a record store, and Steve had never been more touched by his best friend’s efforts to surprise him. Pushing the thought aside and fighting back the constricting feeling in his chest at the memory was more difficult than he would have liked to admit.

Sam, however, remained oblivious to these thoughts; oblivious to every tiny memory Steve was currently feeling surfacing. He let out a soft, amused snort. “I think I’ve got some of his collection somewhere. I don’t have a record player, so if you’d like…”

“Thanks,” Steve said, letting his gaze drift back to the nearly full shelf again. Stacked there were parts of his life that seemed so out of place to him as the old-fashioned technology must do to Sam.

“You know, I’ll just finish this some time later,” he said and left the pile of records he had meant to put away on the floor. “Let’s do the kitchen next.”

“Okay,” Sam replied. “Shall I put this on?”

“No.” The answer had come with more vehemence than intended. And he could see the mild confusion on Sam’s features, feeling guilty about it instantly. Sam showed some genuine interest in the music from Steve’s time, quite obviously fascinated by all of it, but Steve simply couldn’t deal with the memories that were connected to at least a good third of his collection. It had been easier, a while ago, to find solace in something that reminded him of his previous life. Bittersweet, yes, but he had often spent his evenings reliving the days he wished to never forget, even if they often hurt more than a little.

Ever since he had learned that Bucky had not died that day in 1945 Steve could find no comfort in the gentle melancholy that the music from his days usually induced; and he probably wouldn’t do so until he finally found Bucky and brought him home. If that was ever going to happen.

“All right. Kitchen utensils in that box over there?” Sam asked, pointing towards the one that already stood in the open kitchen by the breakfast bar.

The kitchen, as much as the rest of the apartment, was spacious, counters arranged in a big L, and a bar with two stools on one end of it, right under a kitchen window. White with a beech tree countertop, walls painted in a soft shade of apricot, the kitchen looked more modern and bright than the one in his old apartment. It was also the only place where the previous owner had left much of its content - many pots, dishes and cutlery still in the cupboards.

“Are you sure your friend’s alright with me using these?” Steve asked, having opened one of the cupboards as Sam tended to the box with a few things Steve had brought.

“Yeah, sure. It’s not like you’re going to break every single one of them, are you?” he said with a smirk and took the electric kettle out of the box, looking at it with knitted brow. “Dude, what do you need that for?”

“To boil water. How do you boil yours?”

Sam still looked at him in mild confusion. “I… don’t really. In the microwave, if I have to.”

Steve looked at him in amusement before he pointed at the power socket by the breakfast bar. “Put it there. That’s where I’ll make my coffee in the morning.”

“Coffee? But… you don’t have a coffee maker? How do you even-- Yeah okay, I’m not gonna ask,” Sam ended and put the kettle in the socket. Steve had to let out a small chuckle and started to explain how to hand-brew coffee while they unpacked the other items. He had just brought a few individual utensils and pieces of crockery that he hadn’t left in one of the other boxes they had already put into the apartment’s basement storage earlier that day.

Sam’s friend - a medical scientist who had been looking for a interim tenant while she was working on a project in Nigeria for a year - had taken all her personal items out of the apartment into a storage facility. Just the furniture had been left and a few other items like lamps, some blankets, and cushions.

Steve had already moved in two nights ago after they had come back from their first and sadly unsuccessful trip to Bulgaria to look for Bucky or any signs of him, any clues they could use to pick up his trail. Even though Natasha had already provided him with documents, Steve had needed to see with his own eyes some of the former Hydra facilities where they had kept Bucky. It had brought no results whatsoever. The cobwebbed, dusty remains of scientific equipment told little about what had been done to Bucky there; but far too much to let Steve sleep properly at night.

When they had come back to DC Sam had not once said ‘I told you so’, but Steve had been able to guess that Sam had not expected any breakthrough - quite contrary. Yet he had tagged along indulgently; willing to follow Steve wherever their search took them, and Steve was immensely grateful for that. He would have done all of this alone, but not having to made it a little easier.

Sometimes, and Steve hated himself for allowing it to happen at all, he thought that it was all for naught. That he’d never find Bucky, because Bucky simply didn’t want to be found. Had either gone back to whomever remained of Hydra - potentially facing the kind of severe punishment that made Steve immediately push the thought away - or disappeared from the face of the earth. A ghost story again, a man with no memories and no purpose. And that thought, sometimes, was worse than the others.

Steve’s phone chimed while he was halfway done unpacking some basic groceries and organising them into one of the cupboards, and he looked back at Sam who had started to prepare some coffee.

“You can check it,” he said, not wanting to drop the cans of beans, soup, the pasta, and the few other items he was currently balancing in his arms in search for an ideal spot. It wasn’t like he got anything truly personal from anyone anyway.

“It’s from Natasha,” Sam said a few seconds later.

Cans on the right side and bagged groceries on the left? “Just open it,” he prompted, hurrying up.

“Oh, wow… she’s--” Sam was still reading her message, and when Steve finally fully turned around to face him he could see a mixture of surprise and delight on his friend’s features. “Man, she’s good. She’s really good!”

“What’s she got?” Steve asked and stepped closer.

“Okay, don’t get your hopes up just yet,” Sam started, and Steve knew where this was going. He contemplated taking the phone from him to read everything himself, but his heart had started pounding in his chest, unable to do anything but the opposite of what Sam had suggested.

“There was a tweet by someone who may have seen him. She’s hacked into his account and deleted it. Says he only had a handful of followers, and it was done a minute after it was posted.”

Steve felt himself exhale in relief; it would have been the first question he’d asked.

On top of giving Steve the file on Bucky - which he had thought to be all she could and would do to help - Natasha had been in contact with them a few times, providing help and advice where she could despite her warning reminders at the beginning of his search. Over the last few days she had devised a very thorough and efficient system to track any possible mentions of and clues to Bucky on the internet; but if she could do that it meant others could potentially do the same. At this stage, whether it was Hydra or the US government didn’t make much of a difference; they were both a danger to Bucky if they got to him first.

“What did it say?”

“Um… hang on,” Sam said, reading further when another message came in. “She didn’t send a copy, just that some guy had seen a ‘man with a metal arm’ in front of a convenience store. She’s trying to get into the security tape right now.”

His heart was hammering even faster now and it was so loud that Steve thought Sam must hear it. If he did, he gave no sign of it.

“Can she even do that?” he asked then, remembering how to speak.

“I suppose so,” Sam replied with a small grin. “That’s if the owner has a security camera and does the recording with his computer. But most small business do it that way these days,” he explained. Steve hadn’t been fully aware of how it had been done before ‘these days’, knowing only how it had been done at SHIELD’s headquarters and other important locations; and he was pretty sure it would have taken even Natasha a long time to hack into those. Especially with her not being on location.

His phone remained quiet for a while, and so Sam put it back onto the counter, returning to the coffee pot. Steve had completely forgotten about that too.

“So this is how you always used to make coffee?” he asked, pouring more hot water into the porcelain drip-brewer as Steve had explained to him before.

“Only if we could afford paper filters. Or coffee,” he replied, not feeling the amusement in the same way as he usually would have, seeing Sam’s puzzled face. His gaze wandered over to his phone again, willing it to announce another message.

“Shouldn’t we go to that place?”

“If you were him, would you hover around the same spot for hours?” came Sam’s instant response, and Steve realised he’d been foolish to even ask. Of course Bucky wouldn’t, and even if he had stayed in the vicinity, by the time they got there - wherever it was - he’d be long gone.

“Did she say where?”

“Nope. Guess she’s busy with getting all the info together. I’m sure she’d have mentioned it if it were in any way relevant,” Sam said in an obvious attempt to calm Steve’s nerves. It hardly worked. “Why didn’t you get a coffee machine?” he asked then, pouring the last of the hot water over the filter. “Ah, let me guess: because you’re old-fashioned that way?”

Steve only just managed to give Sam a small smile.

When the water had almost seeped through the filter completely and Steve thought he could leave the counter long enough to take out two coffee mugs, his phone finally chimed again and the rapid heartbeat was back.

 

_Not sure. See attached video. Address of store below._

 

Almost not daring to breathe, Steve hit play.

It was a rather blurry shot of a small store, high shelves standing close with narrow passages between, stacked with groceries and other daily items. The camera seemed to be facing from the entrance towards the back of the store, and for the first few seconds, Steve could see nothing - no customers, and certainly no Bucky.

Then, his heart almost stood still. Or at least it felt that way for the next ten - seemingly much longer - seconds of the video. There was a figure, gaze carefully lowered and kept from sight of the camera, head covered with a baseball cap and collar of a worn-looking jacket pulled up high. His left hand was hidden in the pocket, and he seemed to adjust something underneath the jacket with his right one before he walked out. Just a common thief for anyone else who’d see the video, and Steve had to force himself to not draw premature conclusions. There was no actual clue to this being Bucky, nothing that would, for sure, give away his identity. But there was something about him, about the way he moved through the narrow corridor before he disappeared from sight that was familiar. Too familiar to be ignored, a clearly distinguishable tension in his steps that Steve not only knew from the few times he had encountered him these few weeks ago. He had not recognised it then - and it was another reason to make him doubt his own observation now - but, in a slightly less rigid and heavy way, Bucky had always had that manner of step when under pressure or stress.

That was his only clue, along with the fact that someone right outside the store had claimed to have seen a man with a metal hand - how exactly that had happened, Steve had no idea; it must have been by some accident at least.

“Is it him?” he heard Sam ask beside him, not even having registered that he had stepped up to Steve’s side and was glancing over his shoulder onto his phone.

“Yes,” Steve said with a firm conviction he had not yet fully allowed himself to feel until he had uttered the words. “It’s him.”

When he finally scrolled down to read the address his heart nearly made his throat constrict and he had to take a deep breath before he turned his head to look at Sam.

“He’s still in DC.”

 

***

 

Steve woke up with a start; his breath heavy and moisture on his face that wasn’t just sweat. He had had one of those dreams again, the ones that had been haunting him ever since that winter in early 1945 but more so in recent weeks.

The key element was always the same, but the surrounding images changed, made the dream unrecognisable to him so that every time his subconscious made up new scenarios, new locations and imagery, it felt horribly real.

This time, he had been searching for Bucky with Sam who had disappeared somewhere between the store from the security footage and the train Steve had found himself on later. He could remember a door, fuzzy images of surroundings that made no sense in reality but had not made him question his whereabouts during the dream. Same as the fact that the train had consisted of transparent walls, the interior far too big for an actual train.

Bucky had been there, standing on the edge of the compartment, and Steve had known he was about to fall.

That part had always been the same; either frighteningly close to how it had happened those seventy years ago or, as this time, twisted into an odd version of reality that made him feel even more helpless. He had not been able to move or speak, desperately trying to get a word out to stop Bucky from falling - jumping - but no sound had come out. Another voice resonated in his mind though, one he had come to despising so much that the memory alone made every fibre of his body tingle with loathing.

Alexander Pierce had stood between him and Bucky - the Winter Soldier - and he had spoken to Steve directly, but the words had already faded from his grasp in the moments after waking up. The only thing Steve could remember clearly now was how Pierce had lifted a hand in Bucky’s direction, and without being able to do or say anything, Steve had to watch Bucky fall from the train. Not into a snowy mountain abyss but into deep, dark waters. His face not contorted with fear, no scream echoing from any rocks. Just a silent, devastating acceptance in his eyes that bore into Steve’s soul in the few moments they had rested on him. Even now as he sat up in his bed, the faint first daylight streaming in through the window. And more when he pressed his eyes shut to push the images out.

He barely registered the sound of fabric almost tearing before he looked and realised he’d dug his fingers into the bedsheet, pulling with a force that had almost ripped it through.

Steve took one, two, three deep breaths before he set his feet onto the floor and got up.

Two days after finding out that Bucky was still in DC they were no closer to finding him than they were before. They had inspected the area around the shop - a poor neighbourhood in southeast Washington - but aside from checking abandoned buildings and places below bridges and the likes they had been able to do nothing, as they surely couldn’t go and ask people on the streets for hints.

For the same reason, Sam had paid the young man who had posted the tweet a visit. A guy named Mike, unemployed and possibly partial to weed, had tried to stop Bucky to ask him for money in front of the shop and thereby caught a brief glimpse of the metal between the jacket cuff and the hand in its pocket. Sam had made a point telling him something about the government listening and watching, and that if he didn’t want to gain their attention, he should refrain from such postings in the future. Although over-dramatised, the story hadn’t been all too far from the truth.

This tweet, however, had been their only clue so far, and Steve wasn’t sure whether he should be hoping for others or rather not risk the next one ending up on the radar of the NSA or Hydra, whatever was left of them.

He simply didn’t know where to continue. Tracking down former Hydra laboratories, dead drops and safe houses, although scattered all over the globe, had seemed easy, straight forward and potentially promising. Finding Bucky in a city with around 650,000 people however, was like finding a needle in a haystack.

There was just the question - one Steve found difficult to answer at all - on  _why_  exactly Bucky had not changed his location yet. Every time Steve did allow his thoughts to wander in that direction, all he could do - naively and optimistically - was to think that maybe, after all, Bucky  _wanted_  to be found. Then again, if that were the case would he not have tried to make contact or somehow make it easier for Steve long ago? It made no sense, no matter from which angle Steve tried to approach the question, and he was growing frustrated and crestfallen with every passing day, every hour in which he could do nothing but aimlessly wander the streets or sit at home and will his phone to give him another hope-bringing message. It never came.

When his phone did ring, later that afternoon, it was for a reason he had not expected at all. It was his former landlord who asked him whether he had another copy of keys done some time ago. At first, Steve could make no sense of the inquiry, but when the man explained to him that Mrs Bertram, the elderly lady who lived right below Steve’s old apartment, had claimed to have heard steps and noise at his old place, Steve’s heart nearly leapt out of his chest.

Not even before he had known that Bucky was still in DC, it had ever occurred to him that Bucky could have gone there. But, trying to put himself into Bucky’s mind - into the  _Winter Soldier’s_  mind - who was a fugitive from Hydra as much as from the law, going back to places he remembered from his last mission seemed not unreasonable. From a soldier’s perspective, that of a man trying to survive, hiding in the least likely spots made perfect sense, and Steve cursed himself for not having thought of that possibility before.

Any hope he had had was crushed again, not even half an hour later, though. He let himself into his old apartment over the fire-escape, but he found the place completely empty. No matter how hard Steve looked, he could find no evidence that Bucky had ever been there - no garbage, no chair or table moved even an inch, no water-stains in the sink or residual moisture in the shower, no fingerprints on the window-sill but his own. Not one sign that any living being had been here since he had moved out.

What Mrs. Bertram had heard could have come from any of the neighbouring apartments. Or have been rats, for all Steve knew and cared.

But not Bucky.

He was no closer to finding him than he had been before the call. Who knew if he’d ever be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The single Steve got from Bucky was released on July 5th, 1939: “Our Love is Different” / “Swing, Brother, Swing”


	2. Chapter 2

Steve took a deep breath as he got off his motorcycle, once more around the corner of his old apartment building. Despite his first futile attempt and the fact that he knew the chances of actually finding Bucky here today were slim, he simply couldn’t let it rest.

With swift but quiet steps he made his way towards and then past the entrance, taking in his surroundings and note of anything that looked suspicious or out of the ordinary. When he looked up at the windows of his former apartment he found it completely dark. He could let himself in over the fire escape again and this time he’d wait a bit longer, simply sit in the shadows and hope that his theory wasn’t complete nonsense.

He was very much aware that it could be, as he was aware of the fact that he might never find Bucky and that, once he did, he may not like what he’d find because it might play out the exact same way as it had before. Steve didn’t think he could go through that again, see that coldness in his best friend’s eyes, that… unnatural absence of free will and humanness. Though that had come apart in one short moment, had it not? Just seconds before everything had turned black. Bucky had looked at him with what Steve could only hope had been realisation, recognition.

Then again, he had passed out, had woken up much, much later on a hospital bed. He couldn’t tell whether his memory was completely reliable.

What Steve could bear even less than the fear of finding out he had lost Bucky for good was not trying to find him at all. He owed it to Bucky that he did. It had always been that way between them, taking care of and never giving up on each other. Steve owed that to himself, too, because if he couldn’t do that, if he couldn’t hold on to the only true friendship he’d had throughout almost his entire life and fight for it with all he had, then he would have failed worse than he could bear to imagine.

It was nearly dark when he entered the alley between his and the neighbouring apartment building. Trees on the sidewalk blocked the view partially, and the alley was covered in shadows, the large garbage cans that stood behind a low brick wall on one side barely visible in the near-dark. The fire escape was a few yards further in and Steve walked towards it, looking over his shoulder back to the street to make sure nobody coming from the adjacent restaurant had seen him. Passing the garbage cans, he finally stopped in front of the fire escape, about to jump up to the lowest rung of the ladder and pull himself up. But something made him stop. Something that - he wasn’t even sure - he had rather felt than seen with his peripheral vision. Something or… someone?

He stood still for another moment, and then slowly and quietly turned around towards the trash cans.

There really was a figure, barely visible in the shadows, only a dark outline half turned away, ready to leave, and only part of a face visible from behind the frame of his hood. But he was staring at him, wide eyed and frozen, and so was Steve.

No matter how often he had pictured this moment, whatever he had thought he’d say or do, it was all gone now with nothing left but the overwhelming, bone-crushing fear that any second now Bucky could make a run for it. And he might as well succeed with at least six yards between them, the main street closer to where Bucky stood. He had lost him in a chase once before.

“Please don’t leave.” His voice sounded weak and shaky, and that shouldn’t have surprised him given that his heart was hammering rapidly in his chest. But the words seemed to jolt Bucky into moving. He turned towards Steve and took his hands out of the pockets of his hoodie, slowly and tensely, like someone poised between fight or flight. The expression of frozen surprise had left his face and had evened into an attempt at concealing disquiet and turmoil.

Steve remembered to breathe then, his chest tight before two, three pants left him. “Bucky?” His voice even quieter than just now, so, so afraid he could chase him off with anything more than that.

They stood there for what could have only been seconds but felt much, much longer. Eventually, Bucky’s lips parted as if he was warring with himself whether to actually speak. What came out then, voice rough and nearly too quiet to understand over the distance was, “I knew you.”

And that was it. Steve let out another breath, fighting down the choked sound that wanted to emerge with it. His eyes started burning, view slightly blurred. In his chest, his heart was tight and twisting, but the relief was the most overwhelming he had felt since the day he had found Bucky in Zola’s laboratory.

He had started to move without noticing it, his feet taking him forward to cross the distance between them, but he stopped himself instantly when he saw Bucky tense again and flinch back.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Steve managed to get out, voice a little firmer, reassuring, and hands raised, palms open. “Please don’t… don’t go.”

He could see that Bucky was struggling, the signs of distress obvious. His chest was rising and falling rapidly, gaze flickering over Steve before he shook his head slightly, blinking, as if to shake something off. Then, the expression on his face broke for a moment, like he was in pain or anguish.

“I read it, all of it, at the exhibition. I knew you, but that’s…  _that’s not me_. I don’t know who I am, there’s… nothing. There’s just  _you_ ,” he brought out, seemingly under strain, words sharp and  breathing rapid. It sounded like an accusation.

Steve had no idea what to do with that, how to make sense of it and most importantly how to have it make sense for Bucky. Something cool trickled down his cheek, and it took him a second to realise that tears kept forming in his eyes. Bucky remembered him, at least in some way, however small. He remembered. He was going to be okay. He was… back.

“Bucky,” Steve could only repeat, the name coming over his lips as nothing but a whisper. He took another step closer, and then one more, as if something was pulling him forward to convince him that he wasn’t making this up.

Bucky wasn’t flinching this time, not even backing away. He just stared at him, his jaw working, expression looking as if it was constantly threatening to crack.

Steve couldn’t bear to keep the distance any longer, no matter whether it was smart and sensible or not. The last two steps between them were crossed in an instant, and Steve wrapped his arms around Bucky, hugged him as tightly as possible without threatening or hurting him. He hadn’t thought he’d ever be able to do this. Bucky had been dead, gone from his life forever.

And even when Steve had learned that he was, in fact, alive, even when they had fought on that helicarrier and he’d been prepared to give up his life if that had been the only alternative to killing him, even then it had not felt this real. Not as it did right now when he held him in his arms, trying to breathe, trying not to sob and break down for everything he had lost and never thought he’d get back. In that moment it didn’t even matter that Bucky had gone rigid the second he’d touched him, his breathing soft but erratic. He didn’t move to return the hug, but he didn’t lash out, didn’t push him away, didn’t try to run.

And that, Steve could only count as a win.

Eventually though, he drew back and let his arms sink, immediately missing the feeling of his best friend’s body against him, but he was afraid he might be pushing his luck. He took him in instead, looking at him properly for the first time.

Frankly, Bucky looked terrible. So very different from the handsome, cleaned up young man he had been before the war, and even different from the soldier Steve had fought those three weeks ago. There were dark shadows under his eyes, his skin pale, and it looked like he hadn’t shaved since they had last seen each other, a dark beard having grown on his cheeks and jaw. And yet, Steve could hardly get enough of looking at him, of seeing with his own two eyes that Bucky was here, alive. Real.

The look with which he answered Steve’s was hard to place - shock maybe, confusion, as if Steve had done something that was entirely out of his range of understanding.

It brought Steve back from that high of utter relief he had just felt to the truth of the circumstances that had led them both here, and Steve could barely resist the urge to take Bucky into his arms again, to tell him, to try to make him feel that, somehow, everything was going to be alright.

He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before he finally found the strength to speak again. “I live somewhere else now,” he started, nodding towards the building behind him. “Why… did you come here?”

It took a few moments for Bucky to react, and he still looked far from comfortable. “I don’t know,” he said at first, but then his gaze flickered away. “I've been here on a mission. Tried to find out what it was. If it could bring anything back.”

“Did it?” Steve asked carefully, a question that, for just a moment, seemed to make Bucky nervous. His gaze was flickering around again, but he didn’t raise it to Steve’s eyes before he gave one small but sharp shake of his head.

He felt a great wave of sympathy for Bucky. Still more automatically than consciously, he raised a hand to Bucky’s shoulder, giving him a small squeeze. “It’s okay. It’ll come. Do you… want to go up there again or…” He didn’t know how to ask, and, for the first time, the thought that Bucky might not want to come with him crossed his mind. Steve had no idea how to handle that, if that was the case.

Bucky looked at him again, incomprehension and disquiet still in his eyes, as though Steve was asking him something he wasn’t aware he should have an answer to.

“It’s okay,” Steve just repeated, not knowing what else to say. “Is there anything else… are you hungry, maybe?”

The look on Bucky’s face remained unreadable, but eventually, after a long moment, he nodded slowly.

Steve looked back towards the main road. There were several places where they could grab a decent bite, but he was very sure that Bucky would not like the idea of sitting in a restaurant, exposed to the gazes of too many strangers. It was dangerous, anyway.

“If you like you can come with me. I’ve got plenty of food at home. At the new place,” he said, the fear that he had gone a step too far too quickly making his skin tingle.

He could see that Bucky was fighting with himself again for a few long moments. He wasn’t sure what it was and, in the end, he didn’t care, but eventually he gave another small nod, his gaze somewhere in the general area below Steve’s chin.

Steve tried to hide having to breathe out in relief behind a small smile. “Okay. It’s a bit of a drive though, and I’m here with my motorcycle. Are you okay with that or should we take a cab?”

Again, Bucky looked as though he wasn’t quite sure what the problem was, or why he needed an answer for that.

It occurred to Steve then that, maybe, Bucky was simply not used to being given much of a choice in things with Hydra, and that hit him like a bucket of ice water. If that was true, if all he had known for the past decades was following orders, then the only alternative was to run. Steve didn’t want to make him run.

“You pick. I don’t care either way.”

It took a few moments, but Bucky seemed to actually think about it. Steve would have liked to know what, eventually, compelled him to pick the bike, but he didn’t ask.

“Okay. It’s just around the corner,” he said and, still afraid Bucky might change his mind any second, lead the way towards the street. But the other man followed him, silent as a shadow, and Steve had to look back over his shoulder once to see if he was still there. He was, hood still drawn up over his face, hands back to being buried in the pockets of the hoodie. Bucky didn’t say or do anything while Steve put on the helmet he had started wearing some time ago - more to protect himself from being recognised than anything. He got onto the motorcycle, and it took one prompting glance for Bucky to get onto it behind Steve.

Bucky felt stiff behind him as he held on, but it was so surreal, so good that Steve couldn’t bring himself to mind for even a second. He still couldn’t quite believe that Bucky was actually there, really sitting behind him and not just a figment of his most desperate imagination. He was still there by the time they arrived. He could feel that presence in weight pressed to his back and in the tentative grasp around his middle, both too real to have been a mirage or dream. Even before they had come to a complete halt in the driveway of the small apartment building, Bucky let go of him and got off the motorcycle.

“Here we are,” Steve said as he took off his helmet and removed the keys. “Bit smaller than the old apartment building,” he added, not knowing what else to say.

How did you make conversation with your best friend who had recently returned from the dead and had hardly any memory of his life before? It probably didn’t make any difference what mundane little thing he was talking about, but Steve found the silence between them uncomfortable in those seemingly long moments when he led him to the house. “Sam got me this apartment. He knows the owner. It’s more quiet here too.”

Bucky followed him silently, glancing up the house for a long moment before asking, “Who’s Sam?”

“He’s--” Steve cut himself off instantly, not wanting to reveal that Sam was one of the people having fought alongside him. “He’s a friend.”

He got no reply this time, only Bucky’s gaze lingering on the facade of the building for a moment longer before ducking his head again to follow.

“The apartment itself is a bit smaller than my old place, too, but it’s nice,” he kept talking while they walked through the hallway and up to the second floor. It only occurred to him then that he had no guestroom to offer to Bucky, but he could figure that problem out later. “The living room and the kitchen are bigger, though. I’m just still not the best cook, but we’ll find something. How does mac and cheese sound to you? Or a sandwich?” he asked just as he unlocked the door to the apartment, opening it wide for Bucky to step in.

“Good,” Bucky replied as if it was instinct, just as it was instinctive for his gaze to be flickering around to take it all in. At least he didn’t look as tense as he had back in that alley anymore, but he still had not taken the hood down from his head.

Steve gave him some space at last and moved into the open kitchen. Since Bucky hadn’t said which he’d prefer, Steve chose to make sandwiches. They would be quicker and a bit easier to digest for someone who probably hadn’t been eating regularly lately. He had some Italian bread, turkey, cheese, some lettuce and a large tomato he cut into slices. A few minutes later, he put two plates with the large sandwiches on the breakfast bar, two glasses of orange juice with them. “Here you go, Buck. Dig in.”

Bucky turned around from where he had been standing by the window, looking out silently. He approached slowly, looking twice between Steve and the sandwiches. But he did sit down and picked up one of them, still sometimes looking as if he felt entirely out of place, as if he had no idea what he was doing here. When he took a bite of the sandwich, however, something flashed over his face, and the next bite came much faster than the first.

Steve wasn’t even that hungry. He hadn’t eaten since lunch, but he was too nervous, too overwhelmed to develop a proper appetite. Nevertheless, he started eating, too, watching Bucky in silence as he devoured that sandwich with wolfish hunger. “If you’re still hungry after that I can make you another.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered up to him then, pausing in between bites the first time since he had started. And again he nodded slowly.

Steve had to smile at that, happy and relieved beyond measure that Bucky was here, let Steve take care of him. Without finishing his own sandwich first, he went back to the fridge and took out the ingredients for a second one, returning with it a minute later. The first one was almost fully eaten.

“Here. Drink something, too,” he said and, noticing that it had unintentionally almost sounded like an order, quickly added, “If you like. I can get you water, too. Don’t have anything else in at the moment. Except coffee and milk. You could have a glass of that, too,” he offered. Bucky stiffened and his gaze flickered up at Steve again, remaining on him for a few long seconds.

“No,” he said eventually, and reached for the glass of orange juice.

“Okay.” Steve had no idea what that had been about, but he wasn’t going to ask any questions now - nothing beyond the immediate necessary.

He finished his own sandwich by the time Bucky had eaten more than half of his second, and put his plate into the dishwasher.

“I guess you’d like to take a shower and put on something fresh?” he asked, carefully, hoping Bucky didn’t see that as insinuation that his bodily hygiene was lacking. It was. Bucky had probably been wearing the same clothes for days or even weeks.

The other man didn’t say anything for a while, he just kept eating the sandwich, until, after long moments of silence, he paused and glanced back over to Steve. Only then he said, “Yes,” as if belatedly realising that Steve could want some sort of an answer.

It made Steve’s brow furrow in thought, and, again, he had the feeling there wasn’t much free will left in Bucky - something that filled him with sadness and incredible anger at those that had treated him as nothing but an instrument for decades.  

“I’m going to find you some clothes then. Do you want to shower now after you’ve eaten, or later?”

Those kind of questions could be good, Steve decided, they showed Bucky that he could have a choice in all matters, even if they demanded more of him than he seemed used to in that moment.

“Now,” Bucky answered after a moment, even though the line of his shoulders looked tense, more so than it had done before.

Steve gave him another small, encouraging smile before he went into his bedroom to pick a few clothes out: sweatpants, a t-shirt and a sweatshirt, with a hood in case Bucky wanted something similar to what he’d been wearing. He also found a pair of jeans in his closet that were a bit too short for him but should fit Bucky. He’d give them to him once they were needed, the next time they’d leave the house. Steve was still unsure how the next few days or weeks even would and should go. It was such an odd, uncertain situation and he feared that Bucky could change his mind at any moment and leave; and that fear would surely not fade anytime soon, not while so much was still out in the open, untouched by a proper conversation and impossible to do so.

After putting the fresh clothes and the thickest, fluffiest shower towel he could find on the small stool in the bathroom, he went back into the kitchen. Bucky had finished the second sandwich as well. “All’s ready. You can use whatever you like. Soap and shampoo are in the shower, razor in the cabinet above the sink. I’ve put a new toothbrush next to it, too. So… if you need anything else, just ask, okay?”

Bucky nodded again and slid off the stool, reaching up to finally slide the hood off his head. Before he passed Steve, however, he glanced at him again. He just stared for a moment as their eyes met but before Steve could figure out if he wanted to ask why, Bucky had turned away and left in direction of the bathroom.

It barely took any time at all until he could hear the faint sound of water starting to rush, and Steve used the time to tidy up the kitchen. Bucky seemed not to take too long in the shower, but after it had fallen silent, there were no other sounds for long minutes.

Steve was starting to get slightly worried, but he was also reluctant to go to the door and ask Bucky if he was all right. That awkwardness, among the worry, was something that would probably last for quite a while, as well. At least, with the bathroom being windowless, it crossed out the possibility of Bucky having fled. After two more minutes of no sign from Bucky, Steve decided to go knock after all.

“Hey, you need anything?” he asked through the closed door, trying to sound as casual as possible.

It took a few seconds longer, but then, finally, the door opened with a soft click, and Bucky appeared in its gap. His hair was still wet, and he hadn’t shaved, but he was clad in the clothes Steve had laid out for him, the soft fabric giving him an entirely different look from the soldier that had fought Steve and even from the man in barely fitting, worn and dirty clothes just minutes ago. It was a contrast that was hard to grasp for a moment.

Yet, Steve managed to hide anything he was feeling and thinking behind a small smile as he took a step back to give Bucky room to come out of the bathroom. “Those clothes okay for you, then? I’ve got something else I could give you. Just… if there’s anything you need, just ask, alright?”

“No,” Bucky gave a soft shake of his head. Steve could see only now how tense he had been ever since he had spotted him, even while they had eaten, because it was gone now. “This works.”

“Good,” Steve replied, pleased for this even just small bit of progress. “I only got one bedroom. But you can have my bed and I’ll sleep on the couch until we figure something out,” he offered, but even before he had finished, he saw a frown flicker over Bucky’s face.

“No, that’s yours.”

“Yes,” Steve replied patiently, again feeling the struggle of wanting to make sure Bucky felt as comfortable as possible without being too insistent. “But I’d be completely okay sleeping on the couch. So, whichever you choose is fine.”

Bucky’s frown deepened a little, and then he shook his head. “Your bed. I’ll be here,” his words trailed off into a murmur as he inclined his head towards the couch and went past Steve.

“Okay,” Steve gave in. “I’ll get you a pillow and a blanket then. Are you tired already?”

Bucky was standing by the couch now, his back half turned to Steve, looking to him as if he wasn’t quite sure where to move next. But he inclined his head towards Steve at the question, as he returned it with, “Are you?”

“Getting there,” Steve shrugged. What should they do with the time they had? The fact that something so trivial posed an actual problem emphasised how unusual and rather twisted this entire situation was. It probably was for the best, though, to leave any talking, any questions and decision making to at least the next day. “I’ll probably hit the shower too and then read a bit in bed.”

Bucky nodded quietly and turned back towards the couch, slowly sitting down halfway towards the middle.

Finding nothing else to say, Steve hurried into his bedroom and put a fresh pillow case on his spare, took a thick blanket and bed linen and brought it back to Bucky. Luckily, the couch was quite comfortable and big - a bit firmer than his bed, which, considering the problem both he and, as he’d learned, Sam had had with soft mattresses after ages of hard field beds or no beds at all, might even be a bonus.

“You can watch TV if you like. Or find yourself a book to read,” he said, pointing towards the large bookshelf alongside the wall separating the living room from his bedroom. “Whatever you need, just take it. You don’t have to ask. Okay?”

Bucky’s gaze flickered up to him again, his expression calmer now than Steve had seen it all evening, but in that rather unreadable. It took him a few moments, but eventually he did reply, an equally calm sound. “Okay.”

Steve nodded, giving Bucky a final smile before he turned and went into the bathroom, feeling empty with an unfulfilled ache in his chest to - he didn’t even really know. Hold Bucky again, hug him tightly to convince himself that, yes, really, he was back. Ask all the questions that were racing each other in his mind and get all the answers. See a smile on Bucky’s face as well, just a tiny trace of the happy young man he had once been. But all that, he assumed, would have to wait. A long time, possibly.

As unsatisfying and saddening as it was, Steve was willing to remain patient for as long as it took.


	3. Chapter 3

He woke with a start and a gasp, disoriented, gaze flickering around to take in his surroundings and understand where he was. Always the first thing he did whenever and wherever he was coming to.

Living room. Couch. Steve’s.

And then he took a deep breath, tried to put every image that was lingering in his mind from restless dreams into a tight box in the back of his mind, and took a conscious moment to remember.

_James Buchanan Barnes. Bucky._

Always the second thing he did upon waking ever since he had known the name.

It was still mostly dark, only a sliver of soft blue on the horizon bleeding into the darkness announcing the dawning of the day. Bucky slowly laid back down and breathed out, leaning against the bundle of pillow and fluffy blanket that he hadn’t unfolded, still in the corner of the couch. It was too warm for that, and it just hadn’t felt right, to spread out on that couch as if he owned it. He watched the darkness recede from the room as the minutes passed, wondering if he should be here. If it was a good idea to stay with this man who looked at him and saw a ghost, someone who just wasn’t there. But he hadn’t known how to say no to him either. It wasn’t like he knew where else to go anyway. He had wandered the streets of the city for so long, but there wasn’t any other that called to him either. Nothing that really called to him at all.

Except for Steve.

So Bucky was here, wrapped in comfortable clean clothes, actually feeling somewhat relaxed as the first rays of sunlight were creeping in through the window.

The door of the bedroom was opened quietly a few moments later, and Bucky sat up on instinct. Steve poked his head through and looked into the living room and, only when his gaze found Bucky awake, stepped out and left the door behind him open.

“Good morning,” he said as he came closer, dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants, barefoot, hair ruffled and gaze still blurred with sleepiness. He concealed a yawn behind his hand and then gave Bucky a small smile.

It was a strange thing to see. People didn’t smile at him, they never smiled at him. And that smile sent a pang of familiarity through his chest, like a memory just grazing the the edge of his consciousness.

“Morning,” he mumbled back, still unable to look away.

“You sleep alright?” Steve asked, his voice a little lower, slightly slurred as he made his way over to the kitchen, filling the electric kettle with water.

Bucky still couldn’t look away from him, unable to comprehend how sleepy he seemed around him, how relaxed. He almost forgot to reply, quickly amending when he noticed.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Steve said, looking over at him, still that friendly expression on his features. And something more that Bucky simply couldn’t place because it seemed completely alien to him. “Want any coffee?” he asked as the kettle started humming. “Do you sti-- I mean, how do you take yours?”

It made him frown for a moment, because he wasn’t sure if there should be an answer to this, and maybe, somewhere, there was, but…

“I don’t know.”

“Okay…” Steve seemed to ponder something for a moment, gaze lowered, brow furrowed as he was pouring the hot water through the filter on top of the coffee pot. “You used to like it with a bit of milk and one sugar,” Steve eventually said. “That sound good to you?”

Bucky had no idea. He didn’t even know how coffee tasted. But he nodded, his hand coming up to rub his eyes. “Yes.”

Another smile before Steve finished preparing the coffee. He came over to the couch with two big mugs, handing one over to Bucky. “Careful, it’s hot,” he said and took a sip of his own coffee.  

Bucky took it from him with his metal hand, the fingers wrapping around the mug without feeling how hot the porcelain was. For that he had to raise his other, natural one too, carefully wrapping around it and feeling the heat seep into his skin.

He raised the cup to his lips and breathed in, and the scent that hit him was like a jolt, deep and delicious, and there was the flicker of a memory, an Italian bar and coffee and laughter. Bucky couldn’t move for a moment, his breath hitching, and he closed his eyes and breathed in again, soaking in that scent. So, so good.

As he opened his eyes again he immediately saw Steve’s gaze on him, something expectant in those blue eyes. No, not expectant but… hopeful. The same look he had worn earlier and last night whenever he had looked at Bucky for a few moments. It was difficult to place, to even give it a name; lips curled upward a tiny fraction, eyes shining. He looked at Bucky as if he couldn’t get enough of the sight, marvelling at it even, and… happy.

It made something flicker in his chest just as much as it confused the hell out of him.

Bucky swallowed and glanced away again, raising the mug to his lips to take a first sip. He didn’t know what Steve expected. Not about the coffee - that part was easy, but everything else wasn’t, what Steve hoped and wished for to happen. It wasn’t even so much the what as the  _how_  that remained completely out of Bucky’s grasp, and so the only thing he  _could_  do, what he could give Steve was to bring himself to say, “It’s good,” he made himself say, and it was the truth. Even more so than the sandwiches had been, reminding him of how hungry he’d been and quieting that gnawing in his stomach. The taste of the hot dark liquid on his tongue went deeper in a way, simply for being something to indulge in, rather than to need.

“Mhm, filtered by hand. Still the best, I’d say,” Steve replied, his smile turning a little wider for a moment before he sat down on the couch to slowly sip on his coffee.

“We can make breakfast right away, if you want. I got eggs and bacon.”

Maybe he should get used to this. Maybe this was how it was going to be, because he was here, and right now he was staying. Just as he had gotten used to that name that might be his. Just because, somehow, he had  _wanted_ it. So Bucky swallowed down another sip and breathed in that scent again, wondering if any of this could really work.

Eggs and bacon.

“That… sounds nice.”

He didn’t really know if that was true, but it was what people said in these moments. Probably. How he knew that he couldn’t tell.

The smile on Steve’s face turned yet a little brighter. “Great. I’ll get right to it then,” he said and, leaving half of his coffee in the cup, he quickly got up from the couch and back into the kitchen.

They had breakfast at the same spot they had eaten dinner the night before, and it was so good that Bucky never wanted to stop eating. While he had been on the run, food had just not been essential, it had been hard to stomach. But now, now this was all just in front of him, and damn it all, he was starving.

Same as the night before, Steve offered him a second helping, asked if he wanted anything else and if everything was to his liking, and that was even more strange to him, because these things just… didn’t happen. Not to him. No one had ever been like this around him, and it was as unsettling as it felt… good.

They were done eventually, and Bucky watched as Steve put everything away, his gaze flickering from the bar to Steve and back, something compelling him to not just sit there. To… help.

“Oh,” Steve let out, surprise visible on his features as Bucky, who somehow had gotten to his feet, came over to the sink with the breadbasket and their empty glasses. “Thanks.”

They finished cleaning up mostly in silence, just with Steve telling him where to put what if needed, and Bucky mostly fighting with his own confusion about the way he had never done anything like this before, and yet it felt like something  _normal_. There was still coffee left, and so they refilled their mugs but remained standing in the kitchen, Steve leaning against the counter next to the refrigerator, Bucky by the wall opposite the breakfast bar. He was soaking in that beautiful scent again, and his eyes had settled on Steve, scrambling with the way his head wanted to project his smiling face into that Italian bar again.

“What are you thinking?” Steve asked after what had seemed like a moment’s hesitation, making Bucky avert his eyes. He didn’t really want to answer, not when it was something so raw, something he wasn’t even sure was real. He wasn’t even entirely sure if being here was real. So when he answered, his words came with hesitation.

“The smell. It… reminds me…”

Again, Steve seemed unsure what to respond, but eventually opened his mouth. “The Carello’s? The Italian restaurant in Brooklyn? Because…” He let out a somewhat bashful laugh. “It was the best coffee we’ve ever had. So I hunted down the brand, and it turned out it still exists and sells coffee from the same plantations.”

It was only after a few seconds that Bucky became aware of the odd way he was staring at Steve. When he said ‘we’, it didn’t really feel like he was talking about both of them because… there was no both of them, not for him.

And yet something in his guts protested harshly at that and made him swallow.

“We used to drink this,” Bucky tried the words on his tongue then, slowly and somewhere between question and statement.

“Yes, we did,” Steve replied and then shrugged slightly. “Well, sort of. They had a different coffee maker. Italian type. So it tasted slightly different, but this is as close as it gets.”

Bucky mulled this over for a while, needing to get used to the thought. It was one thing to read all those facts about what his life had supposedly been like, but to hear small, personal details like this was a different thing altogether.

“If you want me to…” Steve started, clearing his throat. “I have to admit I don’t really know what to-- I mean, should I keep talking about those things?”

His gaze snapped back to Steve at the question. “Do you want to?”

“It’s not about me, Bucky. I’m asking you.”

Bucky could just about admit to himself that that might be the problem. He couldn’t remember anyone ever asking him about anything like this. About what he’d prefer, how he’d feel about anything. It made his heart speed up with stress, but Steve wanted to know, so in that moment he forced himself to taste the question on his tongue and actually  _think_ about what his own answer would be.

“I’m not sure,” he eventually said nevertheless, but slowly and thoughtfully, even though the thought unsettled him. “But it could be worth a try.”

“Okay. If it’s ever too much, just tell me, alright?” Steve asked, inclining his head as he looked over at Bucky with slightly furrowed brow and that soft, rather warm expression in his eyes. “Something like this won’t happen overnight. Do you mind me asking how much you remember already?”

Bucky breathed out slowly, deliberately letting go of his cup with his left hand, because he didn’t want to accidentally squeeze too tightly. “Bits and pieces. Nothing vivid, or connected. I see places, people, but except for very few I don’t know what any of them are.”

“Hm. Okay,” Steve said, and another small smile curled around his lips. “We’ll get there. Wait,” he said, putting his mug down and walking to the large shelf in the living room. He pulled out a huge brown album and brought it back to the kitchen bar, opening it. “I have a few photos here and drawings of places and people. Oh, here.” Steve pointed at a slightly worn looking pencil drawing on yellowish paper, showing a row of five- to six-storey buildings. “That down there on the first floor was the barber shop across from where I lived. And a friend of yours lived on the third floor above it.”

Bucky watched on silently, his gaze flickering over the photos and drawings Steve was showing him, without any real recognition, but still soaking in every detail.

“Speaking of which,” Steve said, clearing his throat again a little awkwardly. “Did you not want to shave last night or don’t you… well, know how to anymore?”

Bucky hadn’t expected it to happen, and the feeling was very foreign to him as well, but at the question he instinctively reached up to touch his neck, feeling the beard that was still there beneath his fingertips and a strange heat creep up his skin. He didn’t know what to say, and a feeling rose in his chest that felt a bit like panic.

“I haven’t… I never…”

“Oh. Okay,” Steve said again, lowering his gaze with a somewhat different - apologetic - smile on his lips. “You don’t have to, I mean. It’s fine either way. But if you’d like to shave then I can help you with that.”

It took Bucky a long moment to reply to that. He swallowed slowly, a faint memory rising in his mind of the last time he'd had his stubble cropped. For a few long heartbeats he wanted to say no, but somehow, for some reason he couldn’t really explain to himself, found himself nodding.

The nod was returned by Steve, accompanied by that gentle smile that was slowly becoming familiar. Then he looked into the air for a moment, lips open a few seconds before he began to speak. “Do you want to do it now or later? You can look at the album first if you want.”

“No, now,” Bucky just replied quietly. If he was going to do this, he wanted to get it over with.

“Okay. Come along then,” Steve said and lead Bucky into the bathroom.

He pulled the small stool up to the sink and motioned for Bucky to sit down on it before he went to take a fresh towel and laid it over Bucky’s chest and shoulders. “Hm, I think we should trim this down a bit first. Might need more than just one blade otherwise.”

Bucky just sat still on the seat that had been provided for him and stared at the white of the sink, feeling something in his stomach knot up slowly. His breathing was flat, and his mind went blank, but he just stayed still as the buzzing of the electrical trimmer started, the line in his shoulders tense as Steve started to crop the hairs on his cheeks and jaw.

He was squatting down in front of him, forefinger of his left hand gently lifting up Bucky’s chin, brow slightly furrowed in concentration. “Okay?” he asked softly and carefully brushed a few tufts of dark hair from Bucky’s chin and neck.

He could see that Steve’s lips had moved, but he couldn’t hear a thing. That wasn’t new. But what was happening, what Steve was doing, was. It was the strangest, most alien feeling. Bucky couldn’t really place his finger on it, so he just stayed still and continued breathing.

When Steve had finished trimming the beard, he put the machine away and stood in front of Bucky, regarding him.

“We should probably…” But Steve didn’t finish his sentence, having sounded more like talking to himself. He took another towel - a smaller one - and opened the hot water tap, soaking the fabric in it. “It’s very warm. Tell me if it’s okay,” he said, lifting the wet towel to Bucky’s face and gently dabbed one corner of it to Bucky’s cheek.

It brought the confusion back, pulsing softly through the nothingness, but Bucky wasn’t going to question what Steve was doing. He stayed still when the hot towel was loosely wrapped around his neck and part of it drawn up to press gently against his skin, until Steve had done so with every bit where the beard was growing, and Bucky’s heart had started hammering because he had just no idea what was going on.

“I think that should do,” Steve said, his voice softer and lower now than it had been before. “You know, you actually taught me how to shave. My dad had been killed in action in the Great War,” he explained as he took out shaving cream and brush, and, wetting the brush with cool water, started creating a foamy lather in a separate bowl. “So you showed me. You’d been shaving for almost two years before I had to start with that,” he finished with a small chuckle.

Bucky listened despite that constricting feeling around his chest. Steve’s voice was low and calm, the way he touched him always careful and considerate when he spread the shaving cream on Bucky’s skin. It only heightened the turmoil in his chest, and eventually Bucky’s gaze flickered to his face and locked on it, because this… this was nothing he knew how to cope with.

Steve returned the gaze for a few, long moments, halting in his movements with the brush. “Everything all right, pal?”

His breath hitched, for just a moment, but Bucky kept his gaze on Steve, not even blinking. And he nodded, slowly, because he didn’t know what else to do. He couldn’t remember anyone ever touching him like this.

A small smile on his lips, Steve put his free hand on Bucky’s shoulder, giving it a very gentle squeeze that made the muscles in Bucky’s legs tense, before he finished brushing the soft, creamy lather onto Bucky’s face and neck. “It should rest for a minute or two,” he explained, as he started putting away the utensils he didn’t need anymore and filled the sink with warm water. “At least that’s how you taught me - softens the hairs a bit more. I’m glad I can repay the favour now.”

Bucky was still looking at him. This felt a lot like a faint dream he once might have had, but decidedly something unreal. He wondered  _if_ this was real. But he didn’t want it to fade. He wanted to keep the feeling, the way Steve’s voice sounded, because even though he was entirely out of his depth, it was the best thing he could remember, and he (selfishly, illicitly) wanted to keep it.

Steve eventually brought the razor to Bucky’s cheek, thumb of his left hand stretching the skin towards the temple and shaving downwards without much pressure. His brow was furrowed in concentration again as he completed row after row, first one cheek, then the other, and then, also shaving with the grain, neck and jaw.

“Hm, so far I haven’t cut you yet,” he said with a small smirk. “But now comes the tricky part. Tense your lip. Like this,” he said, demonstrating it, and Bucky did as he was told instantly.

His heart must have stopped hammering somewhere along the line, and it was now, along with his breathing back to a deep, calm beat. He still couldn’t look away. It had been so relaxing that  in some moments a part of him had wanted to close his eyes. But he had wanted to keep that connection to Steve more, hadn’t wanted to confuse something so pure with some other memory. So his eyes had remained open.

It didn’t take much longer, though. Just the chin that seemed to require extra carefulness, too, and Steve was done, examining his work more closely. He lifted his right hand then, brought it up to Bucky’s face, and for a tiny moment there was a bashfulness in the small smile on his lips again. Then he gently placed his fingertips to Bucky’s skin, letting them run over cheek, jaw, chin and neck to find any rough spots.

“Hm, seems all right. A few spots below the jaw. I didn’t want to shave against the grain with this being your first shave in a while. I could lather you up a second time and get rid of that stubble, too, but it’s mostly okay. What do you say?”

“I don’t mind,” Bucky replied quietly,  not really knowing what he was agreeing to: let it stay as it was, or to doing this again.

Steve took it as the former. “Okay, we can do it more thoroughly next time,” he said as he stood up straight again and put the razor away. “Rinse your face with cold water. Best if you do that yourself, I guess.”

His gaze had followed Steve for a moment longer, before he had found himself compelled to stand up. Bucky’s hand came up instinctively, fingertips grazing his jaw, smooth now. It did feel better. The water was clear and fresh and brought him out of that hazy feeling. But it didn’t chase it away enough for him to not turn around as soon as he was done. He reached out to carefully touch Steve’s wrist for his attention.

For the fraction of a second, Steve’s eyes widened as he looked down to Bucky’s fingers on his wrist, but it didn’t look like there was any kind of negative emotion behind it. That tiny upward curl of his lip was there again as well, and he inclined his head ever so slightly, looking back up at Bucky. As if he was surprised and pleasantly so.

Then, he prompted Bucky to speak with a soft sound and open gaze, and Bucky parted his lips, but it took a few quiet seconds before saying the alien words that had been lying on his tongue.

“Thank you.”

The gaze in Steve’s blue eyes shifted then; the smile was still there, turning a little wider yet thinner, but in his eyes there was something - Bucky couldn’t really put a finger on it - regretful?

“You’re welcome.”

It threw him a little, that look he couldn’t place, and so Bucky shifted his gaze away again as he nodded and drew his hand back again.

He had no idea what else to say.

In that moment, it looked like Steve was about to move forward, that odd gaze on Bucky even more intense then, but he stopped himself just an instant later, standing still, the distance still between them. He just raised a hand to Bucky’s right upper arm, giving it a gentle pat before he withdrew further.

“Okay, now just the last step,” he said, reaching for a small bottle in the cabinet above the sink and handing it to Bucky. “You want to put some after shaving balm on your skin. So--”

But Steve didn’t get to finish as, in that moment, the doorbell rang.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve said and, after the nod he had searched for with his patient glance, left the bathroom. Bucky didn’t move right away, new tension hardening the relaxed lines of his body at the unforeseen interruption. But Steve could handle himself, and he had told Bucky what to do. So Bucky picked up the aftershave, but listened silently to be able to intervene if anything sounded off.

Just to be sure.

 

***

 

Steve would have preferred not having to leave Bucky before they were completely done. If he was perfectly honest with himself, he could have drawn the moments out much longer, having enjoyed the odd but pleasant intimacy of it all. It had reminded him of all the times Bucky had taken care of him, had dabbed cotton at his split lip when Steve had gotten into a fight again instead of keeping his mouth shut, or had wiped sweat from his brow with a cool, damp cloth, his smiling face making Steve believe the words so easily that he was going to get over this flu in no time.

Even if the situation was a completely different one now, it did feel good to be able to repay the favours, and it also felt good to establish that closeness again - or at least, start with it.

Nevertheless, Steve knew he couldn’t ignore the doorbell. He had a pretty good idea who it was that came by this morning, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty the second he looked into Sam’s face when he pulled the door open.

The other man’s shoulders dropped the moment he laid eyes on Steve, and he sighed a little.

“Hey, man. You really need to stop ignoring your phone for hours and hours,” was what he said, but the reproach in his voice was mild at best.

“Sorry,” Steve said earnestly, not quite sure whether he should keep his voice down because of Bucky or speak deliberately loud for precisely the same reason. Making Bucky feel threatened through the presence of a stranger was the last thing he’d want. “I was… a little preoccupied,” he tried, also not really sure how to broach the subject.

Sam simply raised his eyebrows at that, the question if it was anything he should know about silent but visible in his gaze.

“I… I found him,” he said at last, feeling the smallest of smiles tug at the corners of his mouth. “He was at my old place. I just… I went back there last night, after all. Just had that feeling that I should.”

“What?” There was surprise written all over Sam’s face, and it took him a moment to come up with more questions. “What happened? Are you okay?”

Steve threw a somewhat nervous glance over his shoulder; the bathroom door was just a small bit ajar as he had left it, and he heard no sound of movement from within. Hand on the doorknob of the entrance door, Steve stepped out, pushing Sam back onto the corridor with a gentle nudge of his hand. “Of course I’m okay,” he said. “And nothing happened. We talked, I took him back here and made him a sandwich. It’s fine. He’s fine.”

“He’s  _here_?” Sam stared at him for a moment before his gaze flickered over Steve’s shoulder though he could barely look inside through the small gap Steve had left. He studied Steve’s face for a moment, and then closed his mouth and banned the stunned expression from his face. “Is there anything you need?”

Steve released a breath he hadn’t been fully aware of holding. Even though Sam had readily helped him on his quest to find Bucky, for a moment, Steve had wondered what kind of outcome exactly Sam had imaged. It had almost seemed, there, as if he hadn’t approved of that bit of information.

“Thanks, but…” There were a few groceries he could use, but Steve didn’t really want to send his friend for those. “No, we’ve got everything.”

Sam studied him closely for a few seconds before he finally nodded, his words quiet. “I won’t say I’m not concerned, Steve. I’ll accept if you say that you’re fine, but I want to hear from you. Once a day. Got it?”

He couldn’t help the small sigh escape him, but when he allowed himself to mull the thought over for a moment, he realised that, had their roles been reversed, he’d probably have asked the same of him. “Got it,” he said with a small smile that Sam mirrored instantly.

“Okay,” he said, looked at Steve for a moment longer, and then raised his hand to grasp Steve’s shoulder. “Hey…” He seemed to decide then that the gesture wasn’t enough for him though, and he moved in to pull Steve into a hug, warmly patting his back. “I’m glad you found him.”

Steve didn’t quite know what to say at that, feeling a mixture of gratitude and a small sense of longing, wishing for a second it was Bucky who hugged him like that. For now and after how it had gone last night, it didn’t seem that much was on the table just yet.

“Thanks, Sam,” he said as he withdrew from the embrace, ready to step back into his apartment. “For everything. At least you’ll have some time to yourself now, I suppose,” he ended with a smirk.

“I’ll probably be bored out of my mind,” Sam gave him a wry grin back and took a step back. “Don’t ignore your phone again, or I’ll be forced to annoy you again some time soon.”

“I won’t, promise,” he replied as he gave Sam a light pat on his upper arm and, after a brief goodbye, went back to the bathroom.

He knocked twice against the half-opened door before entering and found Bucky sitting on the stool again. “Sorry. That was my friend Sam.”

Bucky looked up to him to acknowledge his presence, but he didn’t reply. His gaze merely rested on Steve, and despite his silence, he seemed… softer somehow. No lines of tension in his shoulders, or his face, looking just a bit more now like the one Steve remembered.

“Did you use the balm?” Steve asked and, when Bucky nodded, he let out a soft huff of breath that was more from sympathy than amusement. “You didn’t have to stay here, you know? You can just… Go wherever you want. Do you want to go back to the living room?”

Bucky’s first reaction was a tiny shrug. Three seconds later he got up from the stool again as if they had agreed on leaving together, and looked at Steve, waiting for him to leave first or lead the way.

He opened the door wide and took one step closer to the threshold before he looked at Bucky again, taking in the sight that - despite how difficult and awkward a lot of this was - made his heart skip in his chest from the sheer joy of having him back. Not many people ever got this kind of a second chances in their lives.

“You look great.” The words came over his lips naturally, and they brought up memories of times long gone. Of a small barber shop in Brooklyn, of causal hugs and wide smiles. They were a long way from that, still, but Steve would accept nothing else than doing his best to bring it all back to his best friend as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ~~We had some issues with the chapter titles since AO3 automatically lists them starting with #1, but our first chapter is the prologue, and this one is actually chapter 3 while AO3 lists it as 4. Too confusing? Should we change it and skip the additional titles and simply go with what AO3 does? If you have any preferences let us know.~~
> 
>  
> 
> Update: The chapters are now in correct order; chapter 1 has been integrated into 'Chapter 1' as AO3 named it (meaning: prologue + chapter 1 are in one 'chapter' now). So, while this is not an added chapter, it's a new one nevertheless. 
> 
> Sorry for the confusion, but we thought this was the best way to fix the numbering of the chapters, as Ao3 doesn't give you an option to have a "chapter 0" (Prologue). 
> 
> Thanks for the comments and kudos so far. We do hope you enjoy the fic. Let us know :)

The first day passed, and then the second. They were stranger than anything Bucky could remember.

Steve was… he was – Bucky wasn't sure if he even knew words for it. He was _trying_ so hard. He talked to Bucky, told him about things of the past, encouraged him to make choices, to decide things. He asked him questions. Bucky didn't have an answer to any of it. Steve cooked dinner, got pizza, made breakfast. Bucky still hadn't gotten used to the food, to eating something that tasted good. Steve made sure he was comfortable, gave him fresh clothes all the time, towels, pillows, anything, anything at all. He hadn't ever been… taken care of like this, not even close. Not that he could remember.

It made him so insecure that Bucky didn't know what to do with himself. He retreated into himself. Replied when Steve really needed an answer, tried not to let it show how nervous it made him to be put on the spot to make decisions. Steve let him, fell quiet, too, when he realised that Bucky didn't really want to talk.

There was one window in Steve's apartment, a large one, with a wide, wide window sill. That was where Bucky sat, sometimes watching the world outside, but mostly watching Steve. He might not know what to say, how to talk, but he watched Steve whenever he was nearby, watched him read, watched him cook, watched him sketch, talk on the phone, clean or do nothing at all. It didn't matter. He just needed to watch.

And Steve let him.

Until the third late afternoon when, after many quiet hours, Steve got out that picture album again and held it out to where Bucky was sitting on the window sill.

“If you wanna have a look at it again,” he said, shrugging softly. Making sure Bucky didn’t feel obliged. They had looked at it together a few times after that first morning, had gone over the drawings and photos - of people and places Bucky knew he should have recognised but rarely had.

To be offered that picture album still made his insides cramp because that, too, made him have to decide. Decisions were hard. He’d been making them in the field all the time, on missions it had always been for him to figure out what the best course of action was. He knew how to do that. But this, here, was always about what he _wanted_.

He wasn’t supposed to want anything. So he tried to figure out what it was Steve wanted to hear, and gave that as an answer.

This time it was, "Yes."

He could instantly see the almost ever-present furrow on Steve’s brow disappear and a soft smile light up his face before he laid the album down next to Bucky, opening it on the page they had stopped the last time.

“Do you want me to put some music on? Maybe… some of your favourites from back then? You always used to like Django Reinhardt. I don’t have any originals from our time,” he said, his words speeding up, tone light-hearted with the enthusiasm he always seemed to display whenever Bucky was being responsive. He walked over to his stereo, connecting the small device to play music with (an iPod, Steve had explained). “Should have him on here, though. If you don’t like it I can play something else, too.”

Bucky didn't say anything, but he took the album up and onto his lap. Music filled the room, pleasant sounds, and Bucky traced his fingertips over the edges of the pictures.

“You’ve probably seen some of those at the exhibition,” Steve said after a while, having sat down on the window sill as well and peeking over at the album. “That one was taken in France,” he explained, pointing at the seven men on the photograph.

Bucky stared down at the picture for a while, took in Steve’s presence in it, and then his own. None of it rang any bell though. He couldn’t remember having been in France. He couldn’t remember the men that were in the picture with them. And for a moment there was a pang of resentment in his chest for that man, the other him.

“Were they your friends?”

It seemed to take a moment for Steve to find the right answer, his lips parted for a second or two before he closed them again around a faint smile. “They were great,” he finally said. “The best soldiers you could imagine, but they were more than that: comrades. Brothers even. We trusted each other, and there wasn’t a single moment I ever thought I shouldn’t have.” The smile on his features turned wistful then, and Steve lowered his eyes.

Bucky took his gaze away from the pictures and watched Steve instead. He looked… sad. Bucky knew that he was the reason for that these days just as often as he was the reason for Steve’s smiles. Bucky struggled to come up with something to say.

"You miss them."

“Yeah,” he replied without hesitation. Then he lifted his gaze again, locking it with Bucky’s, that slightly sorrowful shimmer still visible in his blue eyes as a tiny fraction of a smirk tugged around one corner of his mouth, reminiscent. “Yeah, I do. But I’ve got you back, at least. And…” He averted his eyes again before he finished. “I missed you most of all.”

It was hard to keep looking at Steve when he said these things. They were true for him, Bucky had no doubt about that. But they always made him feel like an imposter.

The music that was playing changed, from a light jazz piece to a slower one, more melancholy. And suddenly an image flared up in his mind, of warm lights from oil lanterns, a record player, of cigarettes and drinks and a card deck, laughter and music, just that song.

“That’s Glenn Miller now,” Steve said, oblivious to what was happening in Bucky’s mind. “Pretty popular in our time. You used to like that, too. The song’s called Moon… Bucky? You alright?”

He blinked and remembered he had to breathe. Bucky squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. “Did you… did you listen to it? With them?”

“I… what?” Steve’s voice rose a notch in mild confusion. Then he seemed to understand. “I’m not sure, but we might have. Maybe in London, when we went back there for some debriefing and had a few days off. Dum Dum in particular loved Miller.”

London… they had listened to it in London. Bucky looked up, trying to hold on to the images in his mind. “There was a card game. A… a card game…”

“Poker?” Steve asked, his voice still slightly higher, breathless. “Five cards in hand, and you play it for money?”

"I don't know," Bucky replied, shaking his head. "We were playing and drinking and listening to this? Did we do that?"

It took another few moments for Steve to come up with an answer, and he seemed to be racking his brain for the according memory. He must have so many of them; of course it was hard to tell them apart. But then his face lit up, heavy furrow of his brow lifting. He squinted slightly as he obviously tried to bring the memory back into clearer focus. “We did play poker one night. You… you were winning. I don’t remember what hand you had, but you had some of the others fooled pretty bad. It got you Dernier’s three days ration of cigarettes, in the end.”

That… fit. Bucky couldn't get that image into his mind, but somehow it felt right. Somehow it felt like it could have been his.

The corners of his mouth twitched, and somehow, just for a moment, he smiled.

It seemed to astound Steve. At first he looked at Bucky with a stunned, wordless expression, then he let out a soft, voiceless laugh, breathing in obvious relief. “This is great, Buck. See? It’ll all come back sooner or later. Just takes some time and patience, that’s all.”

Time and patience. Bucky didn't know about that. Maybe that was all it would ever be, those short, disconnected flashes he had. That wouldn't be enough to turn  him back into that man that Steve had missed so much. But at least it was something.

 

***

 

There were several things Steve learned about Bucky in the ten days after he had brought him home.

Firstly, Bucky was very quiet. Steve had known his best friend to go through phases of not speaking much, and they had often shared in that silence companionably. He wouldn’t have considered Bucky to be of a brooding nature, per se, more contemplative, on occasion. Mostly, however, there had been a serenity to him while he’d been standing by a window and looking out, or sitting on a park bench next to Steve, reading a book or the newspaper. Between them, they had been able to go hours without saying a single word, and the moment either of them would start to speak they’d pick up a conversation as naturally as probably only two people did who knew each other very well.

There wasn’t a lot of serenity to the way Bucky sat on the windowsill nowadays, his shoulders tense and his gaze nearly vacant, hiding all the things he did not speak of behind it, all the things that Steve only started to grasp faintly on the outskirts.

Secondly, Steve had learned that Bucky found it difficult, stressful even to make any decisions or answer any questions. Naturally, he’d been one to contemplate important decisions for as long as it required; he’d never been rash or a hothead - something that Steve himself was a little guilty of. But when presented with a simple choice such as sandwiches or hotdogs, canasta or chess, a bar or a dance club he’d pursed his lips, crooked his head and then made up his mind, often with a smirk or smile that reached up to his eyes and made any protest void, should Steve have had the opposite in mind.

Now, it was a fine line between giving Bucky a choice and making it for him. When he looked at those troubled eyes that sometimes made Bucky seem like a trapped animal, Steve didn’t know whether the one he took was the right approach.

There were things he learned - or relearned in those cases - that were good, though. Bucky still liked coffee, and he often closed his eyes, taking a deep breath and enjoying the hot steam rising from the cup before his first sip. He still liked music, though it seemed to be Billie Holiday now and Nat King Cole, among others, that made him relax more than his previous personal favourites. Bucky still liked pizza and even the stew Steve had prepared from scratch the other day; he did not like sushi (neither did Steve), and the Thai food they had tried a few days ago had made both their eyes water from being way too spicy.

A few times, he had smiled. Just a small, thin quirk of his lips that didn’t fully reach his eyes. Steve wondered when it finally would, ignored the worry that it may not. He was alone with these questions because he couldn’t ask Bucky, and he didn’t want to ask Sam whenever they talked on the phone, once a day as he had promised.

At least, Bucky had started picking up some routines of his own. He had shaved again some days after Steve had shown him. He was always up when Steve got out of his bedroom in the morning and had made it a habit to prepare their morning coffee so that Steve could always get himself a steaming hot cup minutes after he got out of bed. He helped clean up their dishes, put away the laundry and folded his blankets into a neat pile every morning, but he never asked Steve how things were done. Steve wondered whether he had relearned them by observing or was starting to remember some of them from before.

Steve didn’t dare ask too many questions. Not even the second time they browsed past an admittedly small photo of all three of his sisters and Bucky turned the page without any sign of recognition.

There was another thing he had learned or rather was suspecting, and in that case, too, he had no precise idea on how to broach the subject. Something seemed to be wrong with the metal arm that Bucky mostly kept covered with the long-sleeved t-shirts and sweaters Steve had given him. He barely moved it, didn’t use it for eating if he could avoid it and never let Steve touch it, flinching away if he did so even in passing.

When he did move it, it would make a low creaking noise that didn’t quite sound like something the arm should be doing. At first, he hadn’t paid it too much attention, but by now he’d realised that Bucky might not mention it himself if he wasn’t confronted with it. The noise, on top of it, was becoming more and more loud.

It was a Tuesday morning, one and a half weeks after he had taken Bucky home that Steve decided to bring the subject up.

He sat down on the couch, next to Bucky who was watching a documentary on deep sea fish and creatures on TV. Or at least, he was looking at the screen, the documentary just having been on when Steve had switched the TV on, earlier.

“Hey Buck,” he started, deciding he wasn’t going to beat around the bush this time. “So I’ve noticed your arm sometimes makes these odd noises. Is that normal or does it need fixing?”

"It's a malfunction," he eventually said. A mere observation, not something that seemed to concern him at all.

Steve had to bite his tongue to stop himself from blurting out ‘why didn’t you tell me?’. Instead, he just nodded once and gave Bucky a brief smile to show him it was okay.

“Is it bothering you?”

Bucky threw him a quick glance, and he looked as though he was hesitating to give him an answer. "It might need recalibration to work in full capacity again," he eventually said slowly.

“So… that’s more a programming thing than a mechanical problem?” Steve asked, his brow furrowing slightly. “What about that noise it’s making? Sounds like something’s… jammed?”

Bucky hesitated for a moment, but then he gave a small nod.

“Okay.”

Steve leaned back against the couch for a moment, letting his gaze drift towards the sea creatures  on the big television screen - fascinating to look at, if he had the patience for it now.

Among the things Steve had observed over the last days was also the fact that Bucky never voiced any of his needs; he either took care of them himself or waited until he was offered something - or ordered to do it. And, as every time, Steve came to that conclusion that made his scalp tingle with a low, sizzling kind of anger. Pierce and whoever else at Hydra had been handling Bucky in the past had made damn sure he was theirs to command. Almost as if he hadn’t been human in the first place, not a person with thoughts and needs and feelings.

There was no time for allowing that anger to fill his mind now. Smile back in place, he turned towards Bucky once more.

“I know someone who might be able to fix it for you. Nobody within SHIELD, and definitely not Hydra either; he was on their kill list, too. Would you be okay with me giving him a call?”

When Bucky looked at him this time, his gaze lingered. As so often, his expression was rather blank, but his eyes betrayed deep apprehension.

"How would he know how to work with this?"

Steve let out an involuntary chuckle. “Trust me, if you knew him you wouldn’t ask that question.” It probably hadn’t been the best and wisest thing to say in that moment, and so Steve turned towards Bucky more closely, one knee on top of the couch. He just so resisted the urge to reach out for Bucky’s hand. “He knows technology and machines. He’s… um, he’s got this suit made of metal that makes him able to fly and fight off enemies even you or I probably couldn’t take on. If there’s a person who can figure this out in no time it’s him.”

Bucky's eyes were still on him, and he watched him quietly for a few long moments. Eventually, however, his gaze flickered down and he nodded. "I'll go with you."

Steve exhaled in relief. “Great. I’ll have to call him first, but I’m sure he’ll say yes.” He hoped he wasn’t wrong about that.

Not getting another reply from Bucky for the moment, Steve got up and grabbed his phone from the kitchen counter. It had been a while since he’d spoken to Tony directly; even after having fought together in the battle of New York, the Avengers had never developed the same kind of bond as he had shared with his Howling Commandos. Despite their rather shaky start, however, Steve trusted Tony - though there was a tiny voice in the back of his mind that told him he should better hope he was right here, too.

It took four rings until the call connected and Tony picked up.

"Capsicle," he said by way of greeting. "Did you know that, collectively speaking, humans have spent longer playing World of Warcraft than we have existed as a species separate from chimpanzees?"

Steve took a breath and opened his mouth to speak, but there was no appropriate response - or even question - he could think of. Not to mention that he wasn’t quite following. “I didn’t,” he replied at last.

There were soft sounds of something clicking on the other end of the line, and only when that stopped Tony spoke again. “What can I do for you? Please tell me the world as we know it isn’t ending again.”

“No, nothing like that,” Steve replied, briefly shaking his head at the odd start of conversation. Then again, he’d gotten to know Tony as someone who could be amazingly random.

“There’s something I could use your help with because I’m a little out of my depth in that area,” he started.

"Flowers."

"What?"

"Or chocolates," Tony went on. "Always a good gift to bring to a date. Unless she’s on a diet."

It took another moment for Steve to come up with a response - and he had to push away the brief spark of annoyance at the fact that, lately, everyone seemed to worry about his dating life and that they automatically assumed he'd be out of his depth enough to have to ask for help.

"That's… not why I'm calling," he said eventually.

"Okay. Then what is it?" Tony asked. "If it's something I can do, it must be interesting.”

Steve knew he had to tread carefully now. He did trust Tony, at least so far as fighting alongside him and knowing they could count on each other. When it came to telling him everything about Bucky, however, it did take a bit of careful strategizing. So far, Tony probably didn’t know more about the _Winter Soldier_ than most other people did from eyewitness reports on the press and the huge amount of speculation that had followed.

“It is,” he replied and then, following a gut feeling, added, “but I’d actually like to show you in person. Would make it easier to explain everything.”

“Going with the mystery route then,” Tony hummed for a moment, and there were a few clicking sounds again. “Yeah, why not. Want to come in with whatever it is, or what’s your plan?”

“If you’re free, yes.”

“Sure, just come in whenever. No, wait, I think there’s actually this thing later today, so don’t jump on your motorcycle _quite_ immediately, will you?”

Steve let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head again. He had to figure out transportation for him and Bucky, anyway, as the motorcycle wasn’t really suited for two on anything longer than a drive through the city. “Would tomorrow be okay?”

“I’m going to say yes to that, but I know my scheduled stuff about as well as I know my social security number. But I promise to let you know if there actually is something else.”

“Okay, thanks, I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Steve replied. When he heard the call being disconnected, after Tony’s short ‘yep’, moved back towards the couch where Bucky hadn’t stopped watching him for even a moment.

“So… how does a trip to New York sound to you?”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely comments! We do hope you enjoy our fic. 
> 
> And also also, since I - Leandra - am writing these notes and saturnmeetsmercury wrote Tony in this chapter... isn't Tony just awesome? She did such a great job with him. Let her know if you agree ;)  
> (Seriously tho, I'm still in awe. And she's so un-Tony-ish in real life, lol. I'm more of a diva, actually... alright, enough with the rambling. Read and have fun)

The ride up in the elevator of Stark Tower was marked with even more silence than the entire drive to New York had been, and Steve noticed that Bucky had turned even tenser, his gaze even more distant than during the four hours it took them to get to New York. They had left that morning after breakfast, only stopping once for a small snack, though Bucky had eaten his wrap with less gusto than Steve would have liked. He had replied to Steve whenever he had asked a question, but by the time they had reached Stark Tower’s parking garage and boarded the elevator that would take them right up to the penthouse, Steve had started to wonder whether it had been such a good idea to bring Bucky here, after all.

He didn’t have long to contemplate that question, nor how Tony would react when he learned whom Steve had in tow.

The elevator soon came to a halt with a faint ding, and the doors opened a second later onto the spacious first level of the Stark residence. It looked different than when Steve had last seen it, some of the floor and wall materials replaced, bigger couches in front of the gallery.

Tony, however, was nowhere in sight.

“Hello?” Steve called out, “We’re here.” He had decided to make it clear for Tony  that he hadn’t come alone.

It took a few moments, and then there was the sound of steps on the wide, curved stairs to their left. Steve and Bucky both turned in time to see Tony jogging down, and half raising his arms in a greeting. “You’re here. There’s two of you. Right then, Cap, good to see you. Who’s your buddy?” Tony asked even while he crossed the distance and held out his hand for Steve to take.

He was still shaking Tony’s hand, when Steve made the swift decision to be completely honest and cut to the chase. He could still explain everything later. “He’s my friend, Bucky Barnes.”

Bucky tensed next to him while Tony raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth to say something around a grin, doubtlessly some smart-ass comment. But the moment he looked into Bucky’s face the words seemed to die on his lips and the grin slowly receded. Tony blinked, and then he slowly moved to take a closer look.

Bucky stood very still.

Tony looked as if he wasn’t quite sure _what_ it was that he was seeing. What he said nevertheless was, “This is remarkable.”

“It’s a… long story,” Steve said, having no idea how to go on from here and whether he should tell it with Bucky present, being talked about like he wasn’t.

Tony’s gaze returned to Steve, and for a second he looked like he wanted to ask him if he was _actually_ serious about this. But again, once he opened his mouth, the words died on his tongue as his gaze went over Bucky again, from head to toe, before his eyes widened slightly as he caught a glimpse of what could only have been the tips of Bucky’s left hand’s fingers that weren’t covered by the long sleeve. Tony’s gaze snapped back to Bucky’s face, and all trace of humour was gone from his own.

For a moment he simply stared, and then, voice incredulous, he said, “Oh my God.”

 _Handle this carefully_ , Steve thought to himself. He had to try giving Tony the information he needed without making Bucky too uncomfortable in the process. “It’s not what it looks like. Well, at least not exactly, but like I said: long story. Bucky’s been staying with me for a while. And…” He turned towards Bucky briefly, searching for his gaze and giving him the smallest of smiles. “I trust him, so I hope you keep your mind open and don’t let what you’ve heard affect your judgement.”

Tony reached up to rub his forehead as though the situation was giving him a headache, and then he turned away and started pacing. “Am I dreaming? This is weird. I’m dreaming.” He stopped and looked back up again. “Jarvis, am I dreaming?”

“No, sir, I’m afraid you’re not,” a familiar voice to answered. Bucky’s eyes subtly flickered around for a moment.

Tony sighed and turned back to face Bucky, really looking at him for a while as if he was giving himself some time to come up with something to say.

Eventually he spoke. “No, okay, I’ve got too many questions, and I don’t even know where to start. Congratulations, Cap, you threw me.”

Well, at least that wasn’t a negative reaction, and Steve felt a small smirk that he hoped looked at least somewhat apologetic lift one corner of his mouth.

“I need a drink,” Tony announced then as he turned and started walking towards his bar by the side of the room. He stopped to glance back at them over his shoulder. “You guys want some?”

“Um…” Steve looked back at Bucky for a second, raising his hand in a gesture that was meant to be calming before he crossed the distance to Tony.

“He saved my life, you know?” he started, voice lowered. “He was the one who pulled me out of the river. You’ve probably heard about what went down there.”

Tony stared at him a little strangely then, the open scotch bottle already in his hand. After a moment he said quietly, but not without emphasis, “Alright,” before finally pouring himself a glass. A quick glance over his shoulder told Steve that Bucky had moved towards the glass front overlooking New York, probably assuming that Steve wanted some privacy with his fellow Avenger.

“Okay, here’s my first question,” Tony announced, drawing Steve’s attention back to him. He kept looking at Steve as he gestured vaguely towards Bucky. “ _How_ is he alive? And not a ninety-year-old on top of that?”

“I don’t know _exactly._ They…  We haven’t talked about that. But I suppose, even if he wanted to, Bucky may not remember much of it,” Steve replied but, upon seeing that Tony’s gaze remained  quizzical, he took a deeper breath through his nose and went on. “It could have been sheer dumb luck or more likely a side-effect of whatever experiments were done on him before I got him and the other men of the 107th out. What happened _afterwards_ , that’s a different matter and one I know of more than I’d like.”

“So what did happen afterwards?” Tony wanted to know, his voice still lowered, but his tone now very serious. “I’m not getting this wrong, he _was_ the one shooting at you and Natasha on that bridge, right?”

Steve nodded, glancing over his shoulder again to make sure Bucky was still out of earshot. “But that wasn’t him. Or rather… he didn’t know. They’d used him like that for years, Hydra. Kept him frozen when they didn’t need him and erased his memories when he was showing any signs of resistance,” he explained, finding it even more difficult than he would have imagined. “He didn’t know who I was, he didn’t even know his own name.”

Tony looked at him for a long time. Then his gaze shifted back to Bucky, who was still standing in front of the window, motionless, and emptied his glass. “This is the weirdest day I’ve had since I found the Mandarin watching the Premier League and falling asleep in the middle of a sentence. That arm of his, is it for real?”

“It’s the reason why we’re here,” Steve said. “It’s malfunctioning. Probably has been since… well, that could have been my fault. You don’t happen to know any genius mechanic who can repair a bionic arm?” he ended, forcing a smile to lighten the mood of the conversation.

“Oh, smooth, Rogers,” Tony nodded appreciatively, got up from his barstool, and strolled over towards Bucky. “So! What am I supposed to call you? Barnes? Sargeant? James? Frost Bite? Capsicle’s already taken, see…”

Bucky, glanced warily from Tony to Steve and back. “Bucky,” he just said then, and Tony clicked his tongue.

“What’s it with you James people never using your actual name? Alright, well, follow me, we’ll tinker down in the lab.”

Steve let out a barely concealed sigh of relief and gave Bucky an encouraging nod before the three of them descended the stairs to Tony’s workshop. Steve remained closely at Bucky’s side, briefly laying a hand on his back as he followed Tony. _It’ll be fine,_ he wanted to say but didn’t.

“Alright, if you’d follow me for a second," Tony said, firing up a machine as soon as they were in the lab. Bucky did as he was asked, moving slowly. "Stand exactly… here, yes. Now stretch out your arm please, and hold still. Jarvis?”

“Scan initiated,” Jarvis replied, the panel behind Bucky’s arm coming to life. Bucky looked tense but didn’t move, not even when Jarvis eventually said, “Complete.”

“Perfect, thank you. Now just go sit over there, I’ll get some stuff,” Tony gestured vaguely towards a table while he retreated into the back of his lab, probably to gather some tools. Bucky, again, did as he was told. He slid wordlessly into place on the table and then, slowly, he started to tug  his longsleeve shirt off.

Steve felt a wave of dread for Bucky creep up his spine. Bucky’s tension was easy to see and Steve couldn’t help thinking of everything he had read in Bucky’s file; he was sure that any kind of arm repair had never been voluntary or amicable for him. More than that, it was the newly revealed scars around his artificial arm that almost let the gasp that threatened to escape from his windpipe out. Badly healed, thick welts of tissue, as if the whole apparatus had been soldered into his flesh.

“You okay?” he asked softly, swallowing the knot in his throat.

Bucky’s gaze focussed on him then. He didn’t reply at first, swallowing instead, and slowly wrapping his shirt around his right hand in what looked like a nervous gesture. Eventually, however, he nodded.

“He’ll take care of this, you’ll see. Tony’s really the best,” Steve went on with a light-hearted tone. He wasn’t sure whether he did it to calm Bucky or himself. “All those robotics you see here, he’s built them himself.”

“If he’s saying something good about me, believe him. If he’s not, then don’t,” Tony interrupted them before Bucky had the chance to say anything. “Wow, this really is something. Alright, let’s see.” His attention was immediately drawn to Bucky’s exposed arm, but instead of touching it right away, he turned towards a screen, fingers flying over the holographic keyboard. The room fell quiet for a few moments while he looked over what Steve thought could be the results of the scan. Not even a minute later Tony turned back towards Bucky and leaned down, just looking at the arm at first. “Could you move it for me? Just, you know, something regular.”

Bucky glanced over at him for just a second, and then flexed his arm. Tony’s gaze followed every single move before he tilted his head closer to just listen.

“Dummy? Dummy, come here for a bit. Cap, sorry, you’re gonna have to make room for my little friend here. Barnes - sorry, Bucky - am I right in assuming I can take each of these neat little plates here out to work on what’s underneath?”

After brief hesitation, Bucky replied with a simple, “Yes.”

“Well would you look at that…” Tony mumbled, already busy feeling along the lines of Bucky’s upper arm.

It was the first time Steve had gotten a proper look at it, and the damage he’d caused during the fight on the helicarrier was clearly visible. Steve didn’t want to distract Tony from his work, but he also didn’t want to leave Bucky’s side for too long, both worried for his friend’s state of mind but also for any accidents, should Tony trigger an involuntary movement of the bionic arm. Or make Bucky lash out from all the tension he was clearly trying to hold in. So far, however, Tony was being really considerate to Bucky, great even.

“You think you can fix it?” he asked after a while, sitting  on a stool no more than two steps away. Tony had removed many of the metal plates and laid bare the interior of the arm: wires and circuits spiralled around a metal rod in the centre of the arm, thinner than a bone would be.

“Hell yeah,” Tony replied and straightened for a moment to glance over at Steve. “This is clever, but it’s a bit nineties. Do you happen to have any idea when it was last upgraded?” he clearly directed his next question at Bucky, then frowned a little and raised his hand to snap his fingers in front of his face. “Bucky. Hey, pal. You with me?”

Bucky blinked, his eyes focussing back on the room and Tony in front of him. He didn’t look like he had heard the question.

Despite all of Tony’s gentle efforts, Steve couldn’t shake the tight feeling in his gut at seeing how Bucky had retreated within himself.

“Do you remember anything they did with the arm?” Steve jumped in, leaning forward on the stool to find Bucky’s gaze. “Not just repairs but a general overhaul of sorts?”

Bucky glanced silently between them for a long moment before he opened his mouth, looking like he was trying to remember. “They… yes. I don’t remember what the mission was…” he said slowly.

“That’s… that’s okay,” Steve replied quickly, searching for Tony’s gaze and tilting his head in a wordless question. Tony just raised one eyebrow in return before turning back to Bucky.

“Well, I’m just going to fix your little jamming problem here. I could give this an overhaul some day, the whole thing. Or most of it. The basic structure would have to remain, too risky to undo it with the way it’s hooked into your nervous system and attached to the skeleton. But everything else could be lighter, smoother. I’d need more info on this though, and more time. What do ya say?”

Since Bucky didn’t seem to want to reply, Steve had no other choice than do it for him, only leaving him with the most non-committal response he could think of. “Maybe some other time. We’ll let you know. Thanks.”

Tony, however, didn’t seem too impressed with having his question answered by someone it wasn’t addressed to. He shot Steve a look and then turned back to Bucky, lightly slapping the back of his hand on a still plated part of his biceps.

“That’s nice and all, but I was asking you, buddy. Your arm. If you ever want to get rid of all that noise it makes when, I assume, you’re straining it, let me know. Yeah?”

The look on Bucky’s face as he regarded Tony was curious and a bit confused. But he held the other man’s gaze, and eventually replied with a simple, “Yeah.”

In hindsight, coming here had been the right thing to do; Bucky’s arm had needed repairing, and Tony had handled the situation more admirably than Steve would have given him credit for. It would have been a lot easier on his conscience if Bucky hadn’t seemed so tense and nearly shell-shocked most of the time.

Eventually, about half an hour later, as Tony was reattaching the last few metal plates to the arm, Steve finally felt his shoulders untense.

“Everything go all right then?” he asked somewhat redundantly, and he got another of those Stark looks.

“Try moving it the way it jammed before,” Tony suggested and Bucky did just that without hesitation. No whirring noise accompanied the smooth movement this time.

“Awesome,” Tony estimated the success of his operation and turned away, stretching his back. “By the way. It isn’t booby trapped, no explosives, no fail saves, no trackers. You’re welcome,” he added with a rather pointed look.

Cold fear crept up Steve’s spine. He hadn’t even considered that option.

“So what are your plans now?” Tony asked before Steve had any time to worry even more.

“I thought we could pay our old neighbourhood a visit,” he replied and once more looked at Bucky, trying to find a sign on how he felt about the proposition, whether he wasn’t simply agreeing because he didn’t feel like he had a choice. “That is if you’re up for that, Bucky? If not we can just go back.”

Bucky stopped uncrumpling his shirt  to glance over at him. He looked like he was breathing more freely again now, like most of the tension had dissipated.

“You want to go to Brooklyn?”

And of course, Bucky left it up to him again. Steve suppressed a sigh. “Well, since we’re here already. Thought it might be worth it. You okay with that?”

Bucky didn’t need long to consider that. He nodded and put his shirt back on.

“Reminiscence trip, nice. Want me to fire up your bedroom upstairs?” Tony asked, putting some of his tools away. “You do remember that you have a bedroom here, right? We have _several_ bedrooms here.”

“We’ll see,” Steve replied.

"Suit yourself," Tony simply shrugged, his attention already on the phone he had pulled out of his pocket.

Bucky stood up, his right hand on his elbow, still experimentally moving the bionic joint, and Steve turned to him.

“How’s it feel?”

"Good," Bucky replied quietly, his fingers slowly uncurling and his wrist straightening. "It's like before."

And so was all of him, just now, no visible trace left of just how bothered by the treatment he had been. Steve felt a smile tug on his lips.

“That’s great. See, I knew Tony could fix it for you,” he said and, more automatically than not, gave Bucky’s upper arm a light smack.

The corners of Bucky's lips twitched upwards, and for a moment the look he gave him was almost familiar.

Warmth spread through his midst and his own smile turned even a little wider, the worry and discomfort Steve had felt for Bucky completely forgotten. “So you think we should stay the night, then? Take a bit longer to visit the area. Of course we’ll have to lay low, but… well, there’s a lot we could go see.”

Bucky watched him for a few moments, then he gave Steve a small nod. "Sounds good to me."

“Okay,” he started, raising his voice to get Tony’s attention. “We’ll take you up on that offer. Might be a bit late to drive all the way back tonight.”

"What? Oh, yeah, sure," Tony turned around to face them and pushed his phone back into his pocket. "You kids have fun. Go eat ice cream. Take a few selfies."

Steve didn’t really have anything to reply to that, and so he just lifted his hand in the hint of a wave and nodded his thanks at Tony.

“Don’t worry if we stay out late,” he said drily before he turned to lead the way back up the stairs.

As he heard a “Wouldn’t dream of it,” from Tony, he thought ice cream wasn’t a bad idea at all.

 

***

 

Once they drove into Brooklyn, Bucky couldn’t stop staring out of the window anymore. An incredibly strange feeling was settling in his chest, one that he had started to grow accustomed to the more time he spent around Steve. One of familiarity despite the fact that he could find no actual memory to tie it to. It looked… _different_ , a lot of it at least. Somehow he knew that it was different. Only he shouldn’t, because he shouldn’t remember this.

Or he should, but didn’t.

It was relieving, at least, to be able to move his arm again without constraint. Bucky hadn’t known why, because there hadn’t exactly been any bad memories surfacing as he had sat still while Steve’s friend had worked on his arm, and yet, throughout it all, he hadn’t been able to shake off that tension that had gripped his whole body, that almost irresistible want to tune out everything that was happening around him.

There were so many things that just happened, so many things he reacted to in a certain way without really knowing why, and he hated it. He wanted to know why he did what he did, why he felt whatever he felt. But among all the things he could have now, since he had started living with Steve, he didn’t think that was one of them.

“We lived here?” he found himself asking quietly as his gaze trailed over the houses passing by outside, rows upon rows of houses with steps leading up to front doors.

“You did,” Steve replied, his gaze briefly drifting to Bucky before he directed it back at the road, slowing the car down as he seemed to search for something. “At least your street should be here. It all looks a bit different now,” he said, squinting at all the  street signs he could see at the next juncture, where they had to stop at a red light.

There were stores to the left and right of it and a newer block of apartments at the corner into the next block. “I think it’s down there,” Steve said as the light turned green and he drove down a _Carroll Street_ , stopping and parking the car on the right side of it only about fifty yards later.

Bucky looked outside for a moment longer before he followed Steve out of the car. His hands slipped into his pockets immediately, out of instinct, and he couldn’t help looking around for any threat. He knew very well  that, after D.C., Hydra wasn’t the only organisation that would like to get its hands on him, and Bucky just really didn’t want to draw any attention on them.

Steve led him a few steps away from the car. The street looked almost the same as before the last intersection with the exception that there were larger apartment buildings - five storeys - on the left side, and three-storey rowhouses on the right, their cladding all in different shades of red, brown and off-whites. A few of them seemed to have offices on the first floor, and judging from the mailboxes at the front of the one they were currently facing it was divided into three units.

Steve stopped and Bucky sensed more than he saw the carefully expectant look that he was giving him. His own gaze was still fixed on that house, because there was something… something…

“The memorial at the exhibition, it said I had three younger siblings,” he heard himself say, gaze trailing over a window up at the second floor, and something was there, like a small rip in his mind, and his chest felt tight. “They… they were all girls…”

Steve let out a quick breath, and Bucky could easily see the relief all over his features, a small,  sympathetic smile on his lips. “Yes,” he said and came a step closer to stand right next to Bucky, looking up at the second floor windows. He seemed to want to add something, lips parting for a brief moment before he closed them again, a contemplative gaze making his brow crinkle.

Bucky felt like he might sway on his feet if he didn’t get something to hold on to.

“Becca…” he mumbled, struggling to breathe, faces swimming into his consciousness, dark hair, red lips and beautiful smiles all of them, and then he turned to Steve and grabbed the front of his shirt, fingers clenching lightly in the fabric, his heart pounding with a jumble of fear and grief. “Are they… were they okay? Steve, what… Were they okay?”

The sudden despair must have come out a lot stronger than he would have thought because Steve was looking at him with a regretful frow, eyes glistening faintly. His hand twitched in an upward movement, for a few seconds seemingly unsure what to do before he gently laid it on Bucky’s shoulder. “Yes, they were. They… they lived a good life after the war. Anne is still alive, but Rebecca and Charlie… they’re…” He broke the sentence off, his gaze telling  clearly what he did not want to say out loud with words. “I’m sorry.”

Bucky wished he’d be able to remember how to compartmentalize his emotions right now, or how not to feel them at all because he still wasn’t _used_ to this, he didn’t know how to handle them, not after all this had been locked away for so long. It was so much all at once, dizzying and confusing, and it hurt. He hadn’t expected any of them to still live. After the Smithsonian he hadn’t even thought about finding out, because he hadn’t at all been able to grasp the thought that there was anyone out there at all who would… care. That he was walking around somewhere as a shell of someone people might have known a long time ago. But that moment of panic he’d just felt hadn’t been about what was right now. It had been the fear-spiked thought that their father had been dead, their mother had struggled with rheumatism, and then _he_ had died, and Becca had barely been over twenty, and she’d have had to take care of them all.

But they’d been okay. Steve said they had been okay.

Bucky tried to calm his breathing, his fingers unclenching slowly from Steve’s shirt.

“This was probably a bad idea,” Steve said, his face still twisted into a grimace of sympathy and guilt. His hand sunk from Bucky’s shoulder, and he took half a step back as he looked down somewhere between the sidewalk and the stairs leading up to the house.

“No,” Bucky said immediately, and he looked at Steve in confusion. Why did he think that? His own heart was still racing because the realisation settled slowly in his mind that he had three sisters, and he remembered their faces. Beautiful Rebecca with her smirk that everyone had always said looked so much like Bucky’s. Charlene, headstrong and outspoken and self-confident, bright blue eyes and her head full of dark curls. And Anne, Annie, the little one, all sweet and lively and full of giggles, with a dust of freckles over her cheeks.

Bucky shook his head, and before he knew what he was doing, he had crossed the distance between them and had hugged Steve. It shocked and scared some part of him, didn’t give his racing heart any time to calm down, but this was what people did, he knew this, had seen it, and as scary as it was… it also felt good.

Steve seemed stunned, and for a short moment, Bucky almost thought the gesture wasn’t welcome. Then, he heard Steve take a deep breath, felt him exhale against the side of his face as he laid his arms around Bucky’s back, the touch gentle at first before it grew tighter. “Oh Buck,” he let out, his voice low and thick. “I’m so sorry. So sorry for everything.”

He didn’t know what Steve meant, but that didn’t matter. The part of him that wanted to panic at being pressed to someone else so closely was quieting down, and instead it felt like he couldn’t let go even if he wanted to. Bucky’s throat started to close up and his eyes were stinging, and he tried to keep control over himself, he tried. His arms tightened helplessly around Steve, and then he had to press his eyes shut and his face into the crook of Steve’s neck, suppressed tremors going through his whole body.

There were no words in the whole universe he could find, nothing that would make it over his lips.

“I have a photo of them,” Steve said softly. “I can show you when we get back home.”

Bucky still could not speak. They stood there for he didn’t know how long. Steve still held him, his breath a little shaky, face resting against Bucky’s head, hands gently but firmly on his back.

Steve drew back as the sounds of footsteps approached somewhere on the sidewalk - heels of women’s shoes clicking over the concrete and the low rattling of a baby buggy’s wheels, and Bucky quickly tucked his left hand back into hiding. Steve’s eyes were still wet, the dim light of the cloudy afternoon hiding the faint redness in them. A smile was on his lips again, sad but also hopeful? Grateful? Relieved? Something Bucky couldn’t fully grasp.

“Do you…” Steve started, his voice dropping a notch with that careful reluctance he always displayed when he didn’t seem to know how exactly to word a question. “Want to walk around a bit?”

Bucky’s gaze went back to the house. It was different, he knew that, had been refurbished inside and out. But it had once been his home. There was just a faint feeling of it in his chest, the first inclination he had of the concept he could remember, and somehow he had a hunch that, if it could just be all there, it would be beautiful. The knowledge, deeply ingrained in his heart and mind and gut, that there was a place that was his, people that made it what it was, that he had somewhere he really belonged.

He looked back at Steve and nodded.

They walked wordlessly for a while, side by side, hands in pockets against the soft chill of the early May afternoon. They took a turn left onto one of the more busy streets, finding offices, small shops and restaurants among the slightly taller apartment blocks with just a few single unit houses on one side of the street.

They had been walking slowly, Steve’s steps leading Bucky along the way patiently, giving him time to take in their surroundings. But there was no sense of familiarity here, no recognition of any of the buildings and shop signs. After what couldn’t have been more than ten minutes, Steve stopped in front of another juncture, waiting until a group of pupils who looked like they were coming from a sport class had passed them in direction of the bus stop a few yards behind.

“There’s something else I’d like to show you, but… It’s changed a lot since we’d last been there. I barely even recognised the place myself. It’s behind that school, there,” he said, pointing in direction of the red and pale grey brick building. “We went to a different one together,” he explained. “But this one had the better playground and ball park,” Steve ended with a faint smirk.

Bucky couldn’t wrap his head around the thought that he should have been a kid once. One like those that had just passed them, young, younger even, and reckless and unblemished. It made him want to draw up his shoulders, as if he didn’t fit his own skin, out of place in his own body, in the world.

“Did we play there?” he wanted to know, even if the word ‘we’ still felt like at least half a lie on his tongue when there was nothing in his mind that told him he’d been present for any of this.

“Yeah, we did. In fact, it’s where we first met,” Steve said, the smile on his features turning the tiniest bit bashful as he shrugged. “Wanna see it?”

Bucky nodded without really having to think about it. The look on Steve’s face was worth it either way, so he simply followed him further along the street. There weren’t many people outside right now, but they still ducked their heads whenever someone walked past, Steve under his baseball cap, Bucky under the hood he had pulled back up on his head. But no one seemed to give them more than a passing glance, not even recognising Captain America when they walked right past him.

The playground was behind a fence, the first thing he saw were the colourful slides at the centre. There were four kids, two boys and two girls, playing in the sun that had broken through the clouds only a few minutes ago.

“You probably don’t…” Steve started but stopped himself again, contemplating his next words. “It looked pretty different. All the slides and swings were made of wood, and there was a jungle gym over there,” he said, pointing towards another part of the plot, just an empty lawn with a few trees, surrounded by a wire-mesh fence. On the other side of the playground was a baseball field, and that, too, was surrounded by wire-mesh, some eight or ten feet high. The large gate in the middle of it, however, stood open.

Bucky stepped closer to the fence, right hand slowly wrapping around one of the slender metal rods, and he let his forehead rest against two of them as he looked inside. He didn’t remember how it had looked in the past, but he knew that the bright colours didn’t fit, felt off to him. So he closed his eyes with a soft sigh, waiting if there was anything in his mind, shoved down and forgotten, anything at all that could fill the blanks.

“It was during a summer holiday,” he heard Steve say closely behind him, his voice louder than the sound of children playing, and warmer than the spring sun on his face.

“Are you okay?” Bucky muttered, to a small boy with dishevelled blond hair and bleeding knees.

He heard Steve let out a barely restrained, breathy chuckle. “Yeah, of course. I’m fine. I… Oh.” The huff of breath came again, this time in surprise and a trace of confusion. “Did you just…?”

It happened again then, like during those hazy days he had spent by the bushes and trees alongside the Potomac river. That feeling of a spike going through his head, accompanying a dizzying flood of images, of wooden swings, a group of laughing boys, suspenders and flat caps, and Steve, tiny Steve with scraped knees and furious eyes, of dabbing a handkerchief over the blood, a grin, a nudge, a sullen, “I was just fine.”

When Bucky’s head stopped spinning and hurting, his hand was pressed against it, he was half hunched against the fence, and Steve’s voice was making its way into his consciousness.

“Bucky? Hey… Bucky? Are _you_ okay?” Concern again as so often these days, but there was something else in his tone too. Amazement and a hint of what Bucky had seen in his smile earlier.

Bucky blinked, but it took a moment for his vision to steady itself. His head was still pounding and his breathing was irregular, and he suspected that he might not have been able to stay on his feet without the help of the fence. Steve’s face came swimming back into view, and he tried to form words.

“I… I’m… yes,” he finally managed, trying to push the sharp headache away.

Steve looked around for a moment and then reached for Bucky’s right arm, grasping it lightly below the elbow. “Come on, there’s a bench by the ballpark. Let’s sit down for a moment,” he said and then led Bucky through the open gate, watching both their steps carefully until Bucky had sat down.

“What did you remember?” he asked softly as he sat down next to him, and so Bucky told him, in halting words about finding this small boy in trouble with a few bigger ones, of coming to his aid, of crouching in front of him while tending to his bloody knee.

“Did that happen?” Bucky wanted to know eventually, insecure because most of what his mind had recovered so far was still jumbled, and he didn’t trust it to be real.

But the answer to his question was already on Steve’s face. He was silent for a moment longer, just looking Bucky straight in the eyes, his own gaze deep and sincere. “You were my first real friend, you know that? And… well, the only real friend I ever had for a long time after that. I… I couldn’t believe my luck that day.” His expression turned into a wider smile then, eyes averted for a moment and shaking his head reminiscently. “You actually wanted for us to meet here again, to play ball or climb trees or sit on the swings. And, um… You were the first kid that didn’t give me the feeling you were just putting up with me out of pity.”

Bucky didn’t know what to say to that. He wanted to be happy about that memory that he’d been given back, something more than just an image or a vague feeling. And he was, because as he was looking at Steve now, he felt more real than ever before. Bucky thought he was starting to understand _why_ he had jumped into that river after him.

But at the same time all this was so damn confusing. His head still hurt, and he felt like he was standing in front of a large black dam, hundreds of meters high and wide, with only small memories coming through in small trickles. And the thought of what would happen should it all come down on him was terrifying.

Steve’s voice, however, was soothing. He went on to tell him how their first meeting had precisely come to pass, about those bullies and how they had chased him around until he’d stumbled over the seesaw. And he went on to other anecdotes, of them having tried to fish in the canal, of how it had been when Steve, one year younger than Bucky, had started school and they had spent nearly every break together.

“You always took care of me.” The smile was still there when Steve turned to look  at Bucky  and rolled his eyes with a small shrug. “Well, I got into more trouble than it was smart to, so you had to put up with a lot.”

A small smile was tugging on the corners of Bucky’s lips, and he let it happen. He liked that thought, that somehow, in some other time, he had taken care of someone. Of Steve, definitely, and maybe of his little sisters too. He just wished he could remember more about all of them.

“It was worth it,” he said instead, because that at least he knew without a doubt.

That look was ghosting over Steve’s features again, gratefulness and emotion but also an underlying sadness, and for a split-second Bucky thought he had seen that look, _before_. The feeling was gone before he could have grasped it, though, as Steve reached over and put arm around Bucky’s shoulder - a brief half-embrace and a gentle squeeze. And just like the hug earlier, Bucky could barely breathe with how good it felt. So much that some part of him feared that now that he knew what it was like, he wouldn’t be able to get enough of it.

Thankfully, Steve didn’t know what was going through his mind. “Ready to walk down memory lane some more?” he asked as he got up from the bench. Bucky let out a soft breath, nodded, and got up after him.

They took a walk through Red Hook next. It looked rather awful, and Bucky felt like it hadn’t even changed all _that_ much, a thought that sat uneasily with him. That Steve, the tiny Steve his memory had shown him before, had grown up here. They crossed the canal, sidestepped any attention, and eventually turned around towards Cobble Hill again, into much nicer parts of Brooklyn. They actually got that ice cream, because Bucky could only shake his head when Steve asked him if he remembered how it tasted. As it turned out, it really was delicious.


	6. Chapter 6

Over the next two days, Bucky’s mood improved significantly. Every time Bucky gave him a smile - even if small - replied to him without looking caught and confused and even asked questions himself, Steve felt his chest swell with happiness and relief. That walk through Brooklyn had been a big step into the right direction, as if seeing that old neighbourhood - no matter how much it had changed over the span of seventy years - had brought a spark of life back into Bucky, one that had been sorely missing before.

Steve was not deluding himself, though; he knew there was still a long way to go for everything to return to normal - as much as it ever could, anyway, and whatever exactly ‘normal’ meant. Every time these instances occurred, when Bucky was in a particularly light mood and the changes in him became most apparent, Steve felt a smile spread on his lips. Sometimes even the faintest tingling in his eyes and nose that he tried to conceal behind a grin whenever Bucky seemed to notice Steve simply staring at him. One of them had been the night after getting home from New York when they had decided to watch The Philadelphia Story together, and, even though Bucky hadn’t remembered it, he had visibly enjoyed it.

It was like, bit after tiny bit, the old Bucky was breaking through the surface. The only time Steve had felt as overjoyed as he was now was when he’d found Bucky alive, after he thought he had  been killed or gone missing in action. And Bucky, his best friend, who had been a part of Steve for almost as long as he could remember, was _alive_ ; he’d come back to him and he was, eventually and despite everything, going to be fine.

Steve didn’t even mind that Bucky was beating him at a game of Go Fish for the third time in a row. Steve had had to explain the rules to him first. For some reason, though, he couldn’t shake off the feeling that Bucky already knew them, that he remembered them on a  subconscious level; like riding a bicycle or reading and writing.

It had seemed like the perfect activity for what had started to become an abysmally rainy, dim and cloudy afternoon. So they were sitting at the dining table, warm coffee in front of them.

“Do you have any threes?” Steve asked with mock-exasperation, already knowing the answer since that was the last pile that hadn’t been completed. Winning it did not make up for the fact that Bucky had collected at least twice as many cards throughout the came.

There was an actual _smirk_ on Bucky’s lips as he handed Steve his last two cards between fore- and middle finger, and he leaned back in his chair the moment Steve had taken them, not even bothering to sort through the pile of cards he had won.

At least his last victory had been a bit more narrow: by two piles.

“Yeah, alright. You won that fair and square,” Steve chuckled, shaking his head before he started putting the cards back together to clear them away. “So, what next? You know, I have this list of things people tell me I should check out. There’s some music on there and a TV show from the 50s that’s supposed to be good.”

“A list?” Bucky asked and raised a hand to brush his hair back from his face, looking like his interest was piqued.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve replied and got up from his chair, walking over to the little side-table by the entrance and took his notebook out of its drawer. “Troubleman” had been followed by two-pages worth of additional suggestions from various people but mostly Sam. Other items had been crossed off already. At least he’d never get any awkward glances anymore when asking whether Neil Armstrong was related to Louis Armstrong and a musician too.

“Some musicians that I haven’t checked out yet,” he said when he returned, putting the notebook down in front of Bucky. “Oh, I’ve got Chuck Berry and Elvis Presley,” he said, pointing at their names. “I kinda liked all that 50s rock ‘n’ roll. Not so different from the music of our time. And then some more recent ones.”

Bucky drew the small notebook closer and studied it, going back and forth between the pages to take all the scribbles in. Eventually he traced one of the entries with a fingertip.

“I know that,” he said, sounding somewhat confused about it at the same time. ‘Berlin Wall (Up + Down)’.

“Really?” Steve asked in surprise. “How?”

“They…” Bucky frowned, then shook his head a little. “I know some things. Important things. That could be necessary to know for…” He trailed off then and was quiet for a moment, still looking confused about why they had left him that piece of information. “I just know that there was a wall, right through Berlin. The line between the Americans and the Soviets. There was a lot of talk about war.”

“Oh.” Steve offered, feeling like the elated mood between them was shifting towards a more serious, troubled one. He didn’t want it to happen, but maybe those parts of Bucky’s life until he came back were as relevant to explore as the good things he could recall about his life in Brooklyn.

“You know, every time there was something I needed to catch up on the internet’s been very helpful. I can show you how to use it… Or do you know that, too?”

“I don’t think so,” Bucky admitted after just a second’s consideration.

“You want me to get the computer?”

There was just a small motion of Bucky half-shrugging with his right shoulder before he aborted it. “Sure.”

“Okay,” Steve said and, just a few minutes later, had his laptop open and started, pulling his chair closer next to Bucky’s so that they could both look at the screen together as he explained the basics: how to use the browser in general, google, wikipedia and other resources.

“Wanna try it yourself?” he asked, having the online encyclopedia open. “Just enter whatever you want to know about and see what you’ll get.”

If Bucky was confused about how any of this worked, he definitely didn’t show it. He had just followed Steve’s explanations and instructions with focussed attention, and now pulled the laptop closer to type ‘Berlin wall’ into the search box. Unsurprisingly, he was led to a long article, and Bucky only read for a few moments before he asked, “And this all really happened? All this?” he wanted to know and scrolled down, his gaze flickering at a rapid pace over pictures and fractions of text. “So it’s like a library?”

Steve shrugged faintly. “Well, yeah. Natasha said you shouldn't trust everything you read on the internet, but Wikipedia's apparently quite reliable,” he said, looking over the photo of the wall on the right side of the article, before he scrolled further down . “Crazy, huh? An entire city surrounded by a wall. Or, well, half of it.”

“People are crazy,” Bucky simply replied without taking his eyes off the text. Eventually though he shook his head and leaned back. “Where can I find out what’s most important? Things I need to know?”

Steve couldn’t help but huff out a small laugh at that. “I’d asked myself the same thing. Still do, sometimes, so I don’t really know. History books are good, documentaries, too. If you want to start with the internet, 9/11 is something you should probably know about. Then again, those things only get relevant when people talk about it and you have no idea what it is. And… uh. The Civil Rights movement of the 50s and 60s. The Moon landing, the Cold War and Cuban missile crisis - wait, most of those are a few pages back here,” he said, browsing through the small notebook. “The Cold War’s related to the whole thing with the Berlin Wall, by the way. Oh and the Vietnam War. But… maybe you don’t want to read about wars and tragedies all the time. There’s good stuff, too. Like… well, the moon landing was good. Medical discoveries, too. More rights for women and queer people, vaccinations and cleaner industries.”

Bucky had regarded him with interest. When it was clear that he was done talking for the moment, he tipped his head to the side a little. “I’m going to have to devote a lot of time to this.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Steve replied, but he shrugged, a faint smile on his lips nevertheless. “But it can be interesting. A bit frustrating, too, though,” he added, leaving it at that.

When he had woken up in a world seemingly so much more advanced, richer, smarter, it had been a bit of a shock to learn of all the wars, of terrorism and tragedies that had occurred after the war he’d been in. Apparently, despite all other achievements, there were some things humanity never learned.

“Wanna devote some of that time to more popular culture and check out some of those musicians or do you want to do something else?” he asked, wanting to turn the conversation back to more uplifting topics, maybe a little selfishly He wanted to see more of those smiles and interested glances from Bucky.

“I don’t mind. There are so many things, I doubt it really matters what I do first,” he replied and, as someone who got the hang of things rather quickly, he closed the browser with the wikipedia article. Before they had gone to New York, Bucky hadn’t really seemed to want to join Steve in any of the stuff he was doing, at least not _really_. He had tended to simply shrug a lot more when Steve had asked any of these questions, because, Steve suspected, he hadn’t wanted, or hadn’t felt able to say no. But since they had returned, he had stopped watching Steve so much, and looking instead like he was actually interested in what they were doing together.

They ended up watching the comedy show Fury had suggested and that had been on Steve’s list for ages. Luckily it had been available on Netflix - definitely part of the good stuff he’d told Bucky about - and they were thoroughly enjoying themselves. The show was packed with subtly hilarious humour and endearing characters that appealed to him more than a lot of the more recent comedy programs with their blunt jokes or simply too many references that he didn’t understand.

Steve still felt a pleasant kind of strain in his cheeks from laughing more wholeheartedly than he had done in a long time when he picked up the remote and turned towards Bucky. “Want to watch another?”

This time Bucky nodded without hesitation, looking relaxed and amused. “This feels familiar,” he eventually said when the second episode started and he nodded towards the couple on screen in their kitchen, all in black and white.

In the second episode they watched, the wife was trying to rekindle their relationship by following a list of rather questionable advice from a book, starting with trying to remind him of his childhood by playing a song from that time. Steve chuckled softly, watching as the  whole endeavour ended with her decorating the entire apartment with items that could remind him of his former home, Cuba - palm tree and an actual, life donkey included.

“Charlie would have loved this,” Bucky said completely out of the blue, and though there was a tiny smile tugging at  the corners of his lips, it was easy to hear the melancholy, and maybe even a little bit of sadness in his tone.

The episode was almost over, and Steve wondered for a moment whether he should pause it to give Bucky an answer or leave that for later. He didn’t know there and then if his gut feeling was right, but something told him Bucky wanted to talk about his family some more, wanted to know what he could not yet remember. And maybe, hopefully, say that he wanted to meet Anne. Steve had not yet dared to push the topic since Bucky hadn’t asked about that himself. Not even when Steve had shown him the photo in the album on the first day they had returned.

When the credits started rolling not three minutes later, Steve pressed the mute button and turned towards Bucky again. “You wanna talk about them?”

Bucky’s gaze focussed on him for just a moment before it went down to his lap where the thumb of his right hand was following the edges between the plates of his left.

“I don’t think there’s a lot I can say.”

“Is there anything else you wanna know then?” he asked, trying to keep pressure out of his tone.

There was a soft sound from Bucky, like a small, dry huff. “Anything,” he said and looked up at Steve again. Maybe it was the same thing he had already said earlier: if you had nothing, it didn’t matter where to start. Any place was good.

“Hm.” Steve averted his eyes, brow furrowing in thought when he tried to find something good to start with. Finally, something came to mind and he had to chuckle softly. “There was this one time Charlie, I think she was nine or ten, cut off her hair, nicked your clothes and declared she wanted to be a boy now because boys had it so much easier. She regretted it afterwards… the thing with the hair. And gee, your mom was livid,” he said, shaking his head in amused reminiscence. “She was quite the trouble-maker sometimes. Guess that’s why you always put up with my antics so well.”

Bucky was listening attentively, soaking up every single one of Steve’s words that gave him more puzzle pieces to put into place. He smiled a little, not looking too surprised to be told that his sister had once pulled a stunt like this.

“So I was surrounded by trouble-makers?”

Steve had to laugh at that, letting the sound die down in a somewhat apologetic grin as he shrugged his shoulders. “Just Charlie and me, really. Rebecca was always very mature and reasonable. You two… you held the family together when your old man died.” Steve cleared his throat, not really having intended going in that direction, but mentioning the tragedies among all the joys was almost inevitable. “She was really strong but also very gentle. Amazing with kids. And your youngest sister, Annie, she was… an utter ray of sunshine. Very talented too. She loved to sing and always wanted to learn playing the piano, but your folks couldn’t afford lessons, let alone buy your own piano. Eventually, her school teacher gave her private lessons for free.”

“Oh,” was all that Bucky said for a moment and it sounded like it came from some place deep within. Steve had no idea what it meant, but at least he knew how to read that look on Bucky’s face, the one that betrayed the confusion of having so many questions he wanted to ask, of not knowing which one to pick first. “I… I wish…” he said then, unsurprisingly not finding something to settle on among all the things that had to be going through his mind. “Do you have anything… more photos? Or… do you know what she played? Did… oh,” he interrupted himself, his expression wavering between confusion and epiphany. “Becca, her guy, did he come back?”

“Mattie, yeah. He did. Wounded in action but he recovered alright,” Steve replied. “They got married,” he added feeling rather melancholy at the thought of having missed all this himself. “Some time after the war ended. She’d… after you…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it, even if Bucky had never died for real, or maybe because of it. “She wrote to me after that and said he’d proposed. After you… Well.”

It was hard to say what exactly was behind the expression flickering over Bucky’s face, because there was so much there. Relief and sadness, joy and regret. Possibly even more.

“‘s good to hear,” he said eventually, his gaze dropping to his lap again.

“Annie played all sorts of music,” Steve continued, trying to divert the topic into a more trivial direction again. “Chopin, Beethoven. She was amazing, really. We went to a concert at her school once, just before you went back for your last trip. And… no, I have no other pictures of them, sorry.”

Bucky nodded slowly, and again seemed to be unsure about what to say next, or what to say out loud at all.

“I really hope it’ll come back,” he eventually decided on, words wavering between hope and fear.

“A lot’s been coming back already, so I’m sure it will,” Steve replied quickly, giving Bucky an encouraging smile. He felt like he really should suggest for Bucky to go see his sister, but Steve feared that it would put too much pressure on him, more than he was already experiencing.

Bucky gave a small shake of his head. “That’s not a lot. Just basics. I _know_ things, about them, but I don’t really _remember_ anything we did, together. You know?”

“It’ll come,” Steve said, adamantly convinced - or needing to assure himself of it. Of course, Bucky wasn’t just the sum of his memories. It made no difference to Steve, to the way he felt about Bucky, whether he remembered everything or nothing; he was still Bucky, despite having changed, still so clearly recognisable to Steve as the person that, next to his mother, had meant most to him in the whole world. For Bucky’s own sake, however, Steve hoped, desperately needed to believe, that this really was just the first tiny step of many, and much greater ones.

“Maybe… I do have something I could give you. Not a photo, but… the letters the girls sent to me after… well.” He didn’t mention that the letters had never reached him, having been sent only two days before the news of Steve having crashed into the arctic had gone around the world - of him having followed his best friend into death, as it must have seemed like, so tragically for the girls. “Do you want them?”

There was surprise on Bucky's face as he looked up at him, wonder even. "Yes," he said. The only reply Steve gave Bucky was a brief smile before he got up and went to the large shelf, taking out a cardboard box. He was so glad his possessions had been kept even after his supposed death, collected and preserved for him by Howard and Peggy.

“Here,” he said, handing Bucky the yellowed envelope; and he wondered whether he should give him some privacy to read the letters or stay close. “They look a bit worn, but you should be able to read them just fine. Do you… should I make more coffee while you read? Or get you something else?”

There was something in reply that could have been a slight shake of his head, but in all honesty, Bucky didn’t look much like he cared either way. His gaze was fixed on the two sheets of paper when he carefully took them out of the envelope, on the two different handwritings, and he unfolded it, and began to read.

Steve went into the kitchen to make some coffee anyway, keeping an eye on Bucky from there.

He had read those letters many times when Fury had given him that box; the one from Rebecca was the most heartfelt, saddened but also warm and comforting letter he had ever gotten, and Steve could still remember very well how it had made him feel almost guilty that Rebecca, Bucky’s sister, spent so many words on trying to console him, on telling him it wasn’t his fault, that she and her sisters knew how close they had been, and that he’d always be welcome in their home once the war finally ended. Sadly, he had only had a chance to read it nearly seventy years after it had been sent.

The second one had been from Annie, sent along with her sister’s, and it would have been a spark of hope among the bleakness of grief he had gone through, almost every night seeing Bucky fall in his dreams, if only it had reached him in time. Annie’s words still spoke of sadness, but, as had been her character ever since he had known her, there was comfort and acceptance in her beautifully worded letter that had allowed him to catch a glimpse of their lives back at home, back in his own time, every-day trivialities and little stories that had both chased away the shadows, if only for a while, and made him feel their fullest weight and wish he could go back.

Charlie hadn’t written to him. She'd always been a very outgoing person when it came to her passions and convictions, but her emotions were often guarded carefully behind her wild and confident eyes. Steve had no doubt that she had mourned her brother’s loss as much as her two sisters, though.

He quietly went back to the couch after preparing two more cups of coffee and set them on the coffee table. Only when he had sat back down he carefully looked at Bucky. What he saw, behind the dark strands of hair falling around Bucky’s face as his head was still lowered, were tear tracks. Steve felt utterly helpless then. The sight caught his heart like a vice, and he wanted nothing more but pull Bucky into his arms and hug him tight. In the end, he simply stayed next to him, waiting until he had finished the second letter, hoping he’d either know what to do or for Bucky to tell him, show him, take what he needed himself.

When Bucky was done he let the letters sink onto the coffee table with a shuddering breath. For a moment he just sat there struggling, Steve suspected, to keep his composure. Then, a fresh bout of tears came and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut, obviously losing that fight.

There was no doubt then, no question on what to do. Without thinking even for a second, Steve slid closer on the couch and laid one arm around Bucky’s upper back, hand squeezing his right shoulder, rubbing it lightly in soothing circles.

“It’s okay,” he said, knowing that it wasn’t really, that it was just words. But that didn’t seem to matter at all, because the moment his arm was around Bucky’s shoulder, he turned into Steve and took the offered embrace, buried himself in it, his face against Steve’s shoulder. There were tremors going through his whole body, and the fingers of his right hand were clenching in the hem of Steve’s shirt.

And Steve just held him, let both his arms wrap around Bucky’s back, fingers running over the slightly rough fabric of his shirt in slow patterns. There was nothing else he could do, but maybe it was just enough, just what Bucky needed. It occurred to Steve then that all of this, the process of healing and recovering from the wounds of both fate and Hydra would probably require even more tears than the ones Bucky was currently shedding.

Still, it broke Steve’s heart to hear the faint sobs, feel the shaking of his body and the hitched breath against his neck. He wished he could just take some of the pain on himself to let Bucky get to where he needed to be faster.

He had no idea how long they sat there like this, but eventually the shudders became smaller, subsided altogether, and finally Bucky was breathing freely again. He didn’t make a move to pull away for a few long moments, and when he did, he kept his head lowered and turned away, keeping his back to Steve while he was pulling the collar of his shirt over his face to wipe it off.

“It’s okay,” Steve said, only noticing he had repeated himself the moment the words were out. “I’ll get you a…” Quickly, he got up and sprinted to the sideboard next to the dining table to pull some paper tissues out of the box and hurried back to give them to Bucky. “It really is fine, you know? Anyone would.”

“God, Steve, just sit the fuck down,” was the reply he got, Bucky’s voice rough from the tears. He pulled his shirt down and took the tissues anyway.

Steve sat down, upper body leaned forward, lower arms on his knees and hands folded. He only realised then that it had been exactly what Bucky - the old Bucky - would have said in a similar situation.

A few seconds passed silently while Bucky busied himself with drying his face and cleaning his nose, his back still turned to Steve, before he chucked the tissues onto the coffee table. He simply leaned back blindly against Steve then, gave a soft grunt when he realised how he was sitting, and reached back to nudge him against the backrest of the couch so that he could lean against Steve’s side, his arm and shoulder. Steve still couldn’t see his face, but there wasn’t any tension in Bucky’s shoulders anymore.

And this… this was good, despite what had triggered it. Steve knew that was a selfish thought to have, mainly because his first thought had not been how Bucky was profiting from the physical closeness. His first thought - or rather feeling - had been one so warm and big and even a little bit breathtaking that nothing else seemed to matter in that moment. And he thanked God for having given him that chance, for not having taken his best friend from him for good. It was selfish, he knew that, knew he should rather wish Bucky had survived him and gone back home to see his sisters grow up, get married, have children. But wishing wouldn’t make it happen, so why spoil the happiness and gratefulness he felt by thinking of what-ifs?

For a while Bucky just breathed calmly against him, not moving any further, but Steve was rather sure that his thoughts were still circling around everything he had heard and read.

“I was _dead_ ,” Bucky said eventually, and it sounded as if he had only actually realised that just now.

Steve’s first impulse was to say he wasn’t, but the words died down on his tongue before he had even fully opened his mouth to speak. It was true, in many ways; he had been dead to his family, to Steve, to all of the world except for those that did not care about the life they had used and abused to be nothing but a shell of a man, for so many years. In a way, Bucky had been dead to himself, as well, and he was only slowly coming back to life. Like being born anew and having to relearn everything about the person he was.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” was all Steve could say then. Bucky only sighed softly, and they sat there together like this for a long, long time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there are first... or second times for everything.

That night, after Steve had gone to bed, Bucky stayed on that couch, the letters in his lap, and read them again and again and again. Since the trip to New York he had spent hours wrapping his mind around the fact that he had three sisters. That remembered them. That one of them was still alive, and that there was another person other than Steve who remembered who he had been once, who had known him. It made his heart hurt in the most beautiful and painful way.

He knew he couldn’t go see her, not as he was, not right now. Not when he wasn’t being _himself_. Or at least as long as he didn't even fully remember how to function like a normal human being most of the time. Bucky knew that he was afraid of that kind of confrontation, of having to admit that he barely remembered anything about her, that he was now _someone else_ , someone she didn’t know.

But when - soon, hopefully - more of his memories would return… then he would go. Because when he had read those letters so full of grief and love for him, Bucky had finally realised that all this hadn’t just been wishful thinking. He’d really had people who loved him, and it was real, and true, and maybe that meant that he wasn’t just a weapon, _those_ people’s asset.

Steve always tried to tell him, but even though Bucky trusted him - and hadn’t that been a shock to realise that he did, not just from a hunch, but unconditionally - there was still always that reminder in the back of his mind of what he had done, had been, and Steve couldn’t possibly imagine what that felt like. Bucky was sure that feeling was going to stay with him for as long as he lived.

But the words from those letters he had stared at throughout most of the night teamed up with Steve’s, and that… helped.

Bucky was tired the whole next day, but strangely exhilarated at the same time. He wasn’t sure if Steve noticed, but either way he was smiling at him often, and he looked happy, so Bucky decided he needn’t worry about it.

It was evening now, and they had watched a movie, a western, and at some point Steve had brought out some sort of brandy that that friend of his - Howard’s son, Bucky reminded himself, even though he couldn’t even really remember Howard - had given him some time ago. It was strong and burned all the way down to his insides, but Bucky found that he didn’t mind.

“So, are you feeling anything?” Steve asked after their third glass of the liquor. There was a faint smirk around his lips, one brow quirked up with the other rising along just barely.

Steve had explained to him earlier that, even during the war, after he had rescued him from Zola’s lab, Bucky had developed a strong tolerance to alcohol, stronger than before, and that he himself couldn’t even get drunk at all. Side effects of the serum, he had explained, and whatever version of it Bucky had gotten.

After a moment’s hesitation, he shook his head. “No, not really. Am I supposed to?” Bucky wanted to know.

Steve shrugged faintly. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe after the fourth of fifth glass? Which isn’t me saying you need to get drunk,” he added quickly before he looked down into his own glass. “At least it tastes interesting.”

“It’s good,” Bucky nodded, reassured, and leaned back on the sofa as Steve poured them both another one. “So what if you drank the whole bottle? Still nothing?”

There was an expression ghosting over Steve’s features for a second or two that Bucky couldn’t fully grasp, though he couldn’t shake the feeling that, whatever thought his question had stirred, hadn’t been a pleasant one. Nevertheless, Steve let out a small chuckle and looked back up at Bucky with a smirk that almost looked sincere. “No idea. Last time I tried I only got to two thirds of a bottle.”

Bucky would have liked to know what was behind that expression, but he didn’t want it to down the mood. And he knew enough to be sure that it would, so he just filed it away in his mind and tried to give a small smile back.

“Alright then… bottoms up?”

Steve let out another small laugh, shrugging as he reached for his glass and raised it briefly in a hinted toast before he swallowed it down in one gulp. “It’s a little bit pointless to be wasting good brandy like this, though.”

“It’s not wasted,” Bucky protested lightly, again feeling the liquid go down in a warm trail right to the pit of his stomach. From there it felt like the warmth was starting to spread through his whole body, making him feel pleasantly comfortable, and this was… nice, actually. Really nice. “I like it.”

“Well… good,” Steve said with a warm smile as he leaned back against the couch cushions more comfortably. “You know, I don’t even remember what it _feels_ like, being really drunk. I just remember the aftermath,” he said, cringing with slight amusement.

“Did you tend to get really drunk? Before?” Bucky wanted to know, thinking of the scrawny young man Steve had once been.

“I got drunk _easily_ ,” Steve replied. “Two, three beers and you nearly had to carry me out of the bar. No surprise, the light-weight that I was. But it didn’t really agree with me, with my general state of health, so I didn’t indulge very often.”

Bucky fingered his glass, glancing at the way it reflected the warm light of the small lamp beside them. He couldn't remember any of this.

"I'll tell you, once I get that far," he smiled wryly and pushed the shot glass over the table towards Steve again. Because he _did_ want to know.

There was so much he wanted to know.

They refilled their glasses, emptied them, and filled them again, though Steve was definitely pouring himself less than for Bucky. The bottle was two thirds empty by now.

“Well, here’s to not getting drunk,” Steve said as he raised his glass, a crooked smirk on his lips. “At least you don’t have to hold me up while I puke my guts out.”

A soft sound that might have been a laugh came over Bucky’s lips, but still sounded foreign in his own ears. His face felt warm now, he was pleasantly light-headed, and everything, all of this, was so new and unreal that it might have just as well been a dream. For a second, he actually did wonder whether his mind was playing tricks on him, but Steve was there, relaxed and soft around the edges, the warm light catching beautifully in his hair, and for a ridiculous moment Bucky thought he needed to reach out and check if it was real.

How could he feel so good? Was this normal? How normal people felt?

Was this how Steve felt, too? Blue eyes on him attentively, lips quirked upwards in the tiniest of smiles, more subtle than any smirk or grin of amusement, yet so much more… something, something deep and real, something that reached a part of him far back in the layers of his mind that were still hidden, something he was sure he’d known without being able to grasp how.

Bucky’s mouth was dry, but he didn’t think that would get better with another shot. Maybe water would be better for that? Bucky had no idea. He tore his gaze away from Steve and pushed himself up to get to his feet.

It was then that he realised that, damn yes, he was, amazingly, at least half-drunk. For a moment he couldn’t coordinate his senses enough, and he swayed gently on his feet, instinctively sitting back down again.

“Oh.”

“You alright?” he heard Steve say instantly, two hands firmly grasping his upper arms to steady him, hold him in place. Always so worried, caring and protective; it had been the other way around once. His fingers on Steve’s chin, blood on his split lip. The sound of metal steps under their feet, his hands pushing Steve forward first. A malicious laugh, his body between its source and Steve. And then something sharper flashed through his mind, drew a soft gasp from him, because there was more. A camp fire, the same warm light, that same wonderful buzz in his mind, his back against the bark of a tree, and Steve, Steve was looking at him, and Bucky tipped his head forward.

There was a moment’s confusion, _why didn’t you tell me?_ , but it felt like the best, the only thing to do, and Steve’s lips were warm and soft under his.

 

***

 

The sound of scruffling feet and a low muttered curse was the last thing he  heard from Dugan as he staggered into his tent, and Steve could barely wait to let his faint chuckle turn into a heartfelt laugh until he was out of earshot. With him gone, Steve and Bucky were now  the only ones of their small troop not nearly passed out from drunkenness. Dernier, the first to forfeit what had unintentionally become a drinking competition, even had to be half-carried to his tent by Gabe.

Steve and his men had successfully dismantled a big Hydra facility, and even though there would still be work ahead for them, such an occasion had called for a proper celebration. Especially since the enemy’s location had also held a casket of the finest Scotch whisky most of them had ever had.

“To be fair, I think he’s drunk twice as much as both of us,” Steve said, his laughter ebbing down as he leaned his back against the tree trunk, feet outstretched towards the dancing flames of the campfire.

“Does explain why he’s fuckin’ _fried_ ,” Bucky grinned and raised the bottle he and Steve had shared between them in a small toast before bringing it to his lips again. “Seriously though, how light is this stuff? I feel like I could still get back to the tent on my own,” he added then, peering at the bottle.

Bucky had always had a fairly decent tolerance to alcohol, though certainly not a remarkable one, and Steve couldn’t shake the feeling that something about the fact that his best friend wasn’t nearly as drunk as he should have been was troublesome. He did not want to let that thought spoil one of the best nights he’d had in a long time by wondering about the reasons, though.

“You’re not trying to tell me you’re still completely sober, though, are you?” he asked instead as he took the bottle from Bucky’s hand, taking a small sip of the smoky, malty liquor himself.

Bucky huffed and retaliated by giving Steve a light shove, probably both for his words and for taking the bottle from him. “No, ‘m not. I’m never going to get over getting drunk faster than _you_ though.”

“You know, envy is a poor friend,” Steve said, slapping Bucky lightly on the shoulder. And he had to roll his eyes at himself, realising that he wasn’t completely free from envy, either. What he had already suspected the last few times he had indulged in some drinks had proved to be true: he could not, or only after ridiculous amounts of alcohol, get drunk.

Bucky laughed. “Ya really think I’m envious of you? Nah, pal. This is just fine.”

There was something flickering over his face then, something more sobered up. It was there for only a brief moment though, then Bucky let his head fall back against the tree and his features relaxed again as he glanced up towards the open sky.

“This is really nice.”

Steve didn’t know what exactly Bucky was referring to, but he found no reason to disagree. It _was_ nice: them fighting alongside each other as Steve had always only dreamed about; doing what was right, at last. Being part of a group, all comrades, brothers in arms, friends. Sitting here on a mild late summer’s night with the best friend of them all, after Steve had once feared, but never let himself believe, he had lost him.

In fact, ‘nice’ was quite the understatement. If Steve had to put it all into one word then alive might be it. All of this made him feel more _alive_ than he ever had before.

"Come on, Stevie, give me that stuff back," Bucky eventually murmured, reaching for the bottle in Steve’s hand. "I think I'm finally getting there." A grin was lazily curling around his lips before he closed them over the bottle again, taking another gulp.

It didn't look as carefree as it once had, but that was war for you.

"Least you're the perfect height for this now," he added and shifted just enough so that he could lean half against the tree and half against Steve to pillow the back of his head on Steve's shoulder.

Warmth spread through Steve’s stomach and he was sure it wasn’t from the liquor. He felt himself lean in a bit more, more automatically than consciously. The last time they had sat this close he had been nearly two heads shorter and it had been just his shoulder and upper arm pushed against Bucky’s side.

“Hm, yeah. Now you’re the short one,” he said then, the teasing tone in his words not quite as prominent as he had aimed for.

"You only have like an inch on me," Bucky protested with a huff but stayed where he was, the bottle cradled in his lap, head warm on Steve's shoulder.

Steve just hummed faintly in agreement, too content for the moment to engage in any argument, even if harmless.

The flames of the campfire were slowly getting smaller, bright light fading gradually into a warm glow, and the only sounds that could be heard were the soft crackling and the faint rustling of the leaves above them. There was a frontline only miles away, another fight before them, but what he felt was peacefulness settling over him. Steve couldn’t get enough of it, and he didn’t have to ask himself whether Bucky being there with him, right at his side, was the main reason for it.

Eventually Bucky raised his head again and, pushing one hand under him, attempted to sit himself upright. But something seemed to have gone wrong there as he abruptly slid further down again, his balance obviously affected.

"Woah," he said in surprise, and then let out a half suppressed giggle when Steve instinctively reached for him, one hand on his upper arm, the other at the collar of his jacket.

He had turned his upper body around, and they were fully facing each other now, Bucky’s eyes glazed over from the alcohol, shining warmly in the soft light of the campfire.

A smile curled around Bucky's lips, a small one, and just when Steve wanted to open his mouth to say something, Bucky tilted his head upward and kissed him, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

Steve had no idea how long he just sat there, eyes wide, completely frozen - whether it had been a mere second or much, much longer, and much, much later, he would not even remember what it had felt like. Whether Bucky’s lips had been soft or chapped, the taste of the Scotch sharp or pleasant, the contact of their lips warm and dry or cool and wet. All he could remember and all he was aware of right in that moment was his heart beating loudly in his chest, breath caught in his throat and, in every corner of his conscious mind, overwhelming confusion and surprise.

And then it was over already, because Bucky drew his head back and looked at him. For a moment he did nothing else, only looked, blinking slowly, and then his lips parted and his eyes widened a little, and a wry, half desperate grin flickered over his lips.

“Well shit. You’re… Steve, you’re not a girl, and I’m… definitely not Peggy. Wow, forget that just happened, I’m sorry,” he muttered and started pushing himself away and up.

And Steve did not know what to say, what to think, what to do. He wanted to laugh it off, to agree and say that yes, he very obviously was not a girl, wanted to explain it away with Bucky being drunk, make a waving motion with his hand and shrug as if it had been nothing at all. But he found himself unable to move, so he just watched Bucky get back up to his feet a little shakily. And for a split-second that made his blood nearly run cold with shock, he wanted him to sit back down and…

“It’s late,” he managed to get out, the words nearly stumbling over his lips as he got up as well. “We should--”

“On it, Cap,” Bucky simply replied, one hand coming up to rub over his face as he turned. When he walked away, he didn’t look like he was completely sober, but not for once did it look as if he wasn’t going to make it on his own either.

Steve should go to sleep as well. Instead, he stood there for long, long moments, looking in the same direction even after Bucky had disappeared inside the tent they were sharing.

He was stone cold sober, but still didn’t know or understand a single thing.

 

***

 

Bucky pulled back and blinked, his lips tingling.

For a moment he had thought he understood. For a moment it had all made sense, that this was what they had been, that this was normal and he just hadn’t remembered until now.

But that wasn’t it. It hadn’t been normal back then, and whatever else it had been…

Bucky’s head was spinning.

And Steve… Steve was just staring at him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, and his hands sank down.

“I’m drunk,” Bucky announced then, only half surprised. Yes, he was rather sure this was what being at least a little drunk felt like. Like nothing was entirely real, but not in the bad way, not in the way that left him panicked and without direction, that made him want to curl up and wait until everything was over.

Maybe it was a dream after all.

“But I don’t… don’t think I can explain it to you.”

“Tha--” Steve cleared his throat. “That’s okay,” he said before he got up from the couch and, obviously hesitating and unsure where to go, turned towards Bucky again. “Want a glass of water? Something to eat?” His voice sounded nervous, but he tried to hide it behind a small smile.

Bucky shook his head. It was a little dizzying, but he had learned, and wasn’t going to try getting up again just yet. “Sleep.”

That was a bit of a lie. Bucky knew he wasn’t going to sleep. Not yet anyway.

The only response he got from Steve was a nod and a brief half-glance, eyes averting then before he nodded again and gestured in direction of the bathroom. A moment later, Bucky could hear the door being closed from the inside and the water of the sink running a few seconds later.

He waited until Steve had vanished in his bedroom a couple of minutes later. And he waited until, about half an hour later, it felt safe enough to get up to his feet and walk to the bathroom.

Waiting had helped, and the cold water he splashed on his face did, too. When he lay in his makeshift bed on the couch, that soft haziness around everything was gone and the sight of the ceiling in darkness was incredibly familiar.

Bucky still didn’t really understand. For just that one moment it had all made sense. The gentle, caring way Steve touched him, the one he had only slowly started getting used to, that was so good that it felt like it made something come alive inside him. The way he trusted Steve, unconditionally, with everything he had. The way he wanted to be close to him since that day in Brooklyn, to anchor himself to him. All of that would have made sense if there hadn’t been confusion and shock on Steve’s face both times.

Not that he was convinced he could trust his memories, not entirely anyway. Bucky wished it would make more sense, that it didn’t have to be so confusing. But maybe he simply needed to get used to the fact that this was his life now, his normality, and it would never not be.

It was in the darkest hour of the night that Bucky decided that Steve had been right in being shocked about this. And that it was better this way.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Bucky have to deal with the shift in their relationship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kudos and lovely comments. They're much appreciated. We'll be posting the following chapters in a 5-day rhythm - unless something comes up. But since our beta-reader is working very thoroughly and quickly we should be able to stick to that :)

When Steve let himself into the apartment after a long run, for one ridiculous moment he couldn’t quite shake the worry that he may not find Bucky in there. That thought had crept up on him earlier, when he had been running through the park, and, despite his intention to run until he felt like he was actually just a normal human being, he couldn’t find the energy to do so. So he had kept it at moderate speed and got something to eat for him and Bucky on his way back home.

Steve knew that that worry was completely irrational, that what had happened yesterday surely couldn’t have had such a negative impact on Bucky to leave him with no other choice than to disappear. Nevertheless, he had found it immensely hard to fall asleep last night, only drifting off well into the morning hours. A myriad of thoughts had gone through his mind, were still rattling through it; he’d been asking himself questions he wasn’t sure he wanted answered, had been feeling things he wasn’t sure he should be feeling. All it left him with, very early into the afternoon, was a feeling of mental exhaustion, and he had to force himself to push those thoughts that he didn’t yet know how to handle away.

Bucky was there when Steve entered the living room, sitting by the window on the sill that had become his favourite spot over the past weeks. That morning, when Steve had got up, their exchange had been minimal and awkward, a ‘there’s coffee’ here, an ‘okay’ or ‘yes’ or ‘no’ there, but no real conversation to speak of. Steve couldn’t bear it, not after everything he and Bucky had accomplished together over the past two and a half weeks. One of them needed to start breaking the ice.

“Hey Buck,” he forced himself to say with a casual, nothing-out-of-the-ordinary-happened tone. “Got us some lunch. Subway sandwiches,” he said as he sat the brown paperbag onto the counter and got two plates out. “You hungry?”

Bucky’s reply sounded like an affirmation, but lacked actual conviction. He still slid down from his wide window sill without making a sound and came over to the counter, picking up one of the two subs. His fingers peeled back the wrapping, and then Steve could see him breathe in deeply to catch the scent of fresh food as he often did.

“Smells good.”

Steve gave him a small smile, more genuine than just a forced gesture of encouragement. “I’ve got a steak and cheese one, and chicken teriyaki. That’s… uh, Japanese I think. Some kind of marinade. You pick.”

The look Bucky gave him, Steve thought, was somewhere between sceptical and long-suffering, but he didn’t comment before he snatched the steak and cheese sub from the counter.

Steve was quite sure that, if presented with the same choice, Bucky from back then would have picked the same. It made Steve happy and pleased to see so much of his best friend surface, little by little. But it also reminded him of last night again, and Steve felt the corners of his mouth sink.

That, too, had been something the old Bucky had done.

He tried not to think about it.  He took the chicken sandwich and bit into it, the pleasant taste filling at least one of his senses with something that drowned out some of the heaviness of confusion and helplessness in his chest.

Bucky had taken his usual seat by the breakfast bar where they ate most of the time, and Steve couldn’t help watching him closely. He searched for any signs of changed behaviour. Bucky wasn’t tense, and he wasn’t evading Steve’s eyes. He was quiet, yes, but, since his return he had never really talked much while eating.

It unsettled Steve greatly, not being able to suss out what he was thinking, not knowing what Bucky made of what happened between them, even though Steve didn’t know what to make of it either.

That first kiss… If he measured it by the time he had actually been conscious, it had been only three years ago. Then, same as now, Steve had not been able to make any sense of it. It had been easier, then, to pin Bucky’s action on too much whisky, on a longing for some of that physical contact that was so scarce in a war.

What he had felt about it, however, now that had been a whole different set of dilemmas that had left him with no other choice than to ignore it. Ignore that he had lain awake, trying to recall the sensation of the kiss and compare it to Lorraine’s. Ignore that, somewhere far in the back of his mind, he had wondered before then what it would be like to kiss Bucky and explaining _that_ away with actually being curious about kissing whatever girl he had seen Bucky kissing. Ignore that, even when he tried to imagine himself kissing Peggy - and he had really wanted to - images of that night by the campfire disturbed the fantasy.

He had pushed all that aside, figuring that there was no use in pondering further. Least of all if such actions could land you in jail or worse. And even less because that wasn’t who they were, was it? They were friends, had always been close, and it was all just a whole mess of confusion caused by the mere fact that Steve had hardly any experience, far too little for a man his age, and had obviously been desperate enough for some kissing to not care who it came from.

At least that was what he had been telling himself, then, but that explanation didn’t make any sense _now_.

They ate in silence, Steve too caught up in his thoughts to know what to say, and Bucky unreadably quiet.

When he was finished, Bucky didn’t wait for him before he got up. But when he got himself a glass of water, he slid a second one over to Steve.

“Thanks,” Steve said, breaking the silence and only then feeling the full impact that it had had on himself. He tried to find something to talk about, just some simple, every-day topic like movies or what they could have for dinner, but none of them felt right.

Maybe they did need to address the issue, after all. If only to get it out of the way.

“So, listen,” he started, without knowing what to say, or if he really should say anything at all. He cleared his throat before taking a quick sip of water. “I just wanted to make sure that… You’re my best friend, you know? And that’s not going to--” He barely suppressed the frustrated sigh that rose in this chest or the urge to roll his eyes at his own inability to put what he wanted to say into words and get the point across. “What I’m trying to say is this doesn’t need to be awkward.”

It wasn’t easy to figure out the way Bucky was looking at him. With confusion, Steve thought, as well as a bit of well concealed alarm.

“I know,” he replied after a pause.

That really wasn’t the answer Steve had expected, and he felt his brow furrow in thought for a moment before he just nodded faintly. “Okay. Good.”

He also hadn’t expected the sinking feeling in his chest after it occurred to him what that implied .

“So you… last night, was that another memory or something?” he asked carefully, but this time, Bucky didn’t look back. His gaze was trained on the top of the breakfast bar, and it took a few seconds until he replied with a shrug.

So that wasn’t a no. The sinking feeling in Steve’s midst became stronger, and he had no energy left to fight the awareness of what _that_ meant.

_Forget that just happened._

He couldn’t keep himself from inhaling a bit more sharply, deeply, letting the breath out through his nose in a barely concealed huff.

That drew Bucky’s attention back to him, a slight frown flickering for just a moment over his features.

“What?”

“Nothing,” Steve replied, a little too quickly. “Let’s just forget about it. It’s fine.”

Again, there was no reply, only Bucky pushing his plate back and crumbling the package of his eaten sub into a small ball. It seemed like he was willing to give Steve exactly what he’d asked for.

 

***

 

In certain ways, those days were the worst yet since Steve had found him, no matter how paradoxical that was even in Bucky’s own mind. Physically, he was fine. Tired still, yes, but that seemed to be his default setting these days, and nothing he hadn’t coped well with before. And, by now, his mind had somehow accepted that James Buchanan Barnes was real. Or had been real, at least. Had existed once upon a time. The memories that had started trickling through, sometimes in gentler ways, sometimes hitting him like freight trains, attested to it. That he’d had a life before the Winter Soldier, that he had been a real person. And whoever he was now, he couldn’t - and didn’t want to - deny that.

But Bucky also slowly came to understand that being a real person had some damn confusing strings attached to it. In his case, they mostly carried Steve’s name.

What he had come to realise, after turning it over and over in his mind and examining it from all angles, was that he liked to have Steve close. It had probably started that very first morning, when Steve had helped him shave. When all his instincts had prepared him for something rushed and rough, but what he had gotten instead was attention and care, and gentle, patient touches.

After that Bucky had quickly discovered that this was the only way Steve ever touched him. Light and unassuming, a brush of fingers to his wrist to redirect his attention, a soft hand on his shoulder in comfort or reassurance. One hug in Brooklyn, another on the couch after the letters. And it wasn’t something he had missed before, but now that he knew what it was like, Bucky _ached_ for it.

Then he’d slid into that memory, he remembered kissing Steve and for a brief moment he thought he understood where that ache came from, why it was so strong. Of course he knew abstractly how these things worked, and right then he had thought he understood it practically too. That need to be close to him. That hopeful wait for the next affectionate touch.

Only to realise barely a moment later that it wasn’t like that at all, and _of course_ Steve would look at him in shock and bewilderment.

Of course he would.

So he would act as if nothing had happened, because it seemed to be what Steve wanted. The morning after that night, when Steve had gone out for a run, Bucky had paced in the living room, wishing he could do the same. It had been the first time the apartment had felt too small for him, but he knew how many target lists he probably was on at this point and, more importantly even, what Steve’s reaction would be if he came back and found him gone. So he stayed where he was and started a workout right there instead, more on instinct than anything else. He had pushed himself until the muscles in his whole body had been burning and Steve still hadn’t been back, so he had showered, letting the hot water do its work for long minutes.

By the time the evening rolled around the tension lingering in the air between them since  their almost-talk over sandwiches had mostly dissipated again, and Steve had talked him into watching the first Star Wars movie together. Not that Bucky had needed much talking into. But most of the movie he had spent wishing he could lean back against Steve’s side again, just like he had done after having cried over the letters. Only that, while it had felt so easy before, this time Bucky didn’t dare to.

Steve had gone for a run again the next morning and Bucky had worked out through his sore muscles. The warm shower he took after that had left him so tired that he had just dozed off on the couch, and he only woke up again to the sound of water rushing in the bathroom.

When Steve came out, dressed in jeans and a fresh t-shirt, he gave Bucky a small smile that didn’t completely reach his eyes. He had seen that smile on Steve before, in passing situations, the encouraging quirk of his lips trying to camouflage the sympathy and sadness in his eyes. Ever since that kiss, however, Steve’s glance had often seemed devoid of happiness and relief. Bucky wasn’t sure what the reason for it was, or whether what he thought he had noticed was even true and not simply his own confusion and insecurity reflected back at him.

“Did I wake you when I got back?” Steve asked as he took the newspaper from the kitchen counter and, very obviously hesitating for a moment, joined him on the couch.

Bucky retreated into his corner to make room for Steve, pulling his legs close to him.

"No," he said, keeping his gaze on the folded newspaper.

“Okay, good,” Steve replied and gave Bucky another of those slightly strained smiles, though his gaze did rest on him for a few moments longer. His upper body turned towards him in an offer to at least maintain their physical closeness.

It gave Bucky enough courage to raise his gaze to Steve's face. "How was your run?"

“Good. Took a bit more time and took a longer path than yesterday,” he said, tone casual and normal, and maybe Bucky had been reading too much into it after all because there was the tiniest hint of his usual reminiscent smile when Steve unfolded the paper. His hesitance before he removed the sports section and handed it over to Bucky seemed careful rather than awkward. “Want to have a look? We can swap later.”

His fingers closed around the offered piece of paper on instinct. For a moment Bucky just looked down at the sports section without reading anything, just taking in that folded piece of paper, because this felt so damn familiar it almost made him forget the heaviness weighing on his chest.

"Thanks. Did anyone recognise you?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.

“Don’t think so, no,” Steve replied, gaze trained on the articles in front of him. “Doesn’t happen as often as you may think. At least not when I’m jogging.” He shrugged softly. “Maybe I’m too fast.”

And that… was familiar again. Somehow. Enough for Bucky to crook up an eyebrow at Steve and mutter, “Not exactly unobtrusive,” before unfolding the newspaper section.

Bucky found that he had _no idea_ what was happening in the world of sports. After having returned from New York, he had gone through many of Steve’s books and had pulled out everything history related to go through and at least start to catch up. He had also clicked his way through Wikipedia again, but he actually had no clue what had happened in the sports department over the past seventy years.

A lot, apparently, as there was a large article on soccer on the section’s front page.

Bucky’s eyebrows climbed up again.

Steve must have noticed because his gaze drifted back to Bucky, and he huffed out a small chuckle. “Oh, that. It’s apparently getting really popular again these days. The World Cup is coming up in a month.”

Bucky let his gaze fly over the lines, eyebrows staying where they were. “No baseball on page one? What has the world come to?” he asked in an attempt at dry humour. He wasn’t even sure how he knew _that_.

“Wait til you read the part about the coach being German,” Steve replied, gaze back on the page he was reading , but an equally drily amused undertone in his voice.

“Oh, so the war really _is_ over,” was out of Bucky's mouth before he could think about it, so this time he didn’t have to try for the humour. It simply happened, and he tried not to dwell on it.

The lighter mood between them lingered as they continued reading the paper; Steve told him interesting details about the world of sports because, despite his instinctive words, Bucky realised that he could still barely remember anything about how different it had been in their time. Still, it was nice, simply chatting about trivial things even when they had swapped sections and Bucky was skimming the less amusing and entertaining articles on world affairs and national politics.

Eventually, they were done reading, and Steve folded the newspaper up again to put it onto the coffee table.

“Wanna watch TV or listen to some music?” he offered, and Bucky said, “Sure,” almost on instinct.

Steve seemed to ponder his options  for a moment before he got up and went over to the shelf at the other side of the living room where he kept his records and CDs, right next to the big stereo tower. “Anything particular in mind?”

At first Bucky wanted to say no, because he didn’t. But he knew how that always seemed to make Steve uneasy when Bucky left it all up to him without at least pretending to think about it, and so he got up from the couch to join Steve.

“Let’s see what you got?”

It prompted a small laugh from Steve as he motioned over the dozens of records, the equally large stack of CDs and the iPod that contained thousands of songs, as Steve had explained. “Something from our time or are you ready to tackle something more contemporary. Like… the 50s maybe?”

Bucky crooked up an eyebrow at Steve, feeling the corners of his own mouth twitch slightly. “Last I checked we’re in 2014. Sure that still makes the 50s more contemporary?”

Steve nodded, lips pursed in a contemplative half-frown. “Hm… okay.” He had thrown a brief glance on his CD collection before pulling out an album, the cover a black and white photo of a man, but he had opened it before Bucky could have read the name.

“You might like this one. He’s been making music since the early 70s, and you can recognise some influence from our era in his stuff. It’s quite good.” Having put the disc into the player, he handed the cover over to Bucky who could now read ‘The Essential Billy Joel’ on its front.

“Well at least that one’s closer to this time than our own,” Bucky half grinned at Steve, something in his chest finally unknotting now that they seemed to have found at least some level of ease again.

When Steve finally pressed play, the sounds that filled the room only added to the already light-hearted mood. It had a lively, fast-paced rhythm and melody and Bucky found, surprisingly, that it was nearly impossible not to at least drum his toes or fingers along with it.

“You like it?” Steve asked, but before Bucky had the time to reply, a stack of CDs tumbled over and two of the albums fell to the floor. Steve leaned down quickly, trying to catch a disc that was rolling out of its case and underneath the shelf, and he cursed under his breath, nevertheless with a smirk on his lips as he got back to his feet and put the two CDs back into the shelf, making sure the stack did not look like a shaky building block tower anymore.

Bucky had a hard time trying to conceal a grin that wanted to spread on his lips, but wasn’t too concerned about Steve catching him at it. He decided this didn’t need any further comment.

It might have been from slight embarrassment over his clumsiness or for no particular reason at all when Steve lifted his hand and rubbed it over his forehead, leaving a greyish stain of dust. “Sam laughed at me for having bought CDs in the first place,” he said, like an apologetic explanation for the not perfectly organised clutter.

“What’s wrong with them?” Bucky tried to keep his attention on Steve’s eyes, he really did. But his gaze flickered up to his forehead anyway for just a moment.

“Well, since you can just download pretty much everything these days and put more music on this tiny device than would fit into this entire shelf…” Steve made a waving motion with his hand, small grin on his lips before he shrugged. “But I kinda do like having something in my hands, too.”

Bucky made a brief sound of agreement. “I like it. You have dust on your forehead, by the way.”

“Oh,” Steve said, reaching up and rubbing over his forehead, but unfortunately about an inch left of the dirty spot. There was no mirror in the direct vicinity either, and the longer Bucky watched, the worse it got. A soft laugh came over his lips.

“Steve, what are you doing,” Bucky said, biting down on his lower lip around a smile, and reached up to get rid of the smudge of dirt himself.

“I don’t know,” Steve replied somewhat bashfully, eyes going up to follow the movement of Bucky’s hand. And when Bucky looked at him again, there was something else in his gaze when it went back down to meet Bucky’s, something difficult to grasp but a lot less embarrassed or amused, the muscles around his mouth going slack, all trace of a smirk gone and lips parted ever so slightly.

It made Bucky stop, his thumb going still against Steve’s forehead, because the way he looked at him made his heart stumble.

And then he lost the ground beneath his feet as pain spiked through his head, and Steve was small and sickly pale, eyes dull and tired, cold sweat sticking to his skin and plastering blond hair to his forehead. ‘You’ll be okay,’ Bucky said, but he was scared, terrified, and his hand was unsteady as he raised it to Steve’s face, thumb gently brushing the sweaty strands away. ‘You will, you have to, Stevie, be okay...’

The pain lessened and Bucky blinked, spots of light receding slowly before his eyes, and he found himself with one hand clenched in a shirt on a solid body, straightening with returning balance to see Steve, the new, tall version right in front of him, and he gasped to suck air back into his lungs.

Steve did not ask him what was going on this time; he had gotten used to the effects those memory flashbacks sometimes had. He probably didn’t want to make it any more uncomfortable by pushing Bucky to explain something. His gaze was resting on him, brow furrowed in concern, sympathy written all over his face. His hand on top of Bucky’s, the gentle - involuntary, unknowing? - caress of his fingers in stark contrast to the firm grip of Bucky’s in Steve’s shirt.

It made everything in Bucky’s chest clench, and that ache was back, sudden and vicious. And he knew, he knew he shouldn’t, but his mind was spinning. Comfort from the support, because Steve was there to hold on to; fear from the memory, because it made him wonder how often he had been this scared of losing him; and want from that ache in his chest, because of just how Steve was looking at him. And he shouldn’t, he really, really shouldn’t, but in his former life he must have been either damn reckless, or pathetically selfish, because he went and kissed Steve anyway.

Again.


	9. Chapter 9

Steve froze under the contact, his body and lips rigid for a second that felt entirely too long, but then he melted into the touch that sent sparks through Bucky’s nerves. There was rushing in his ears, and he was light-headed, but the good kind of light-headed, the one he had only so recently rediscovered that it even existed. He knew that he wanted this in a way he couldn’t remember ever wanting anything, one that made his knees weak and went far beyond rational thinking.

The softest, sweetest of sounds came over Steve’s lips as they brushed pliantly against Bucky’s. And Steve moved them, just the tiniest bit, opening slowly, soft and warm, and Bucky’s thoughts were slow like dripping honey. But eventually the realisation trickled in that Steve was actually kissing him back, and for longer than he would have if he were just reacting in surprise.

He was kissing him back.

Bucky’s fingers clenched tighter in Steve’s shirt because he didn’t want to let go, ever, but he knew this wasn’t right. Just because he wanted it to be didn’t mean that it was. Steve knew that. Was supposed to know that.

Bucky broke the kiss, but somehow he couldn’t make his hands unclench, his heart stuttering hollowly in his chest and his breath irregular. Bucky could only stare at Steve’s chest and shake his head incredulously, because he really _didn’t understand_.

“What are you _doing_?”

He could only hear Steve release a breathless sound, not really a huff or a gasp, and it took a moment longer until he finally spoke. “What _am I_ doing? But you just… It was you.” He sounded more confused than Bucky had ever seen him in those past few weeks, and was what finally made Bucky release his hold on the fabric and step back. His legs, his whole body felt weak, and it was hard to form words.

But Steve was… Fuck.

“Why didn’t you stop me?”

There was another of those sounds, and this time it became more of a helplessly exasperated chuckle. “Because I didn’t want to,” he got out just a brief moment later, and it looked like the words had surprised himself.

Steve took a step back as well, running a hand through his hair before his gaze drifted back to Bucky, his own looking utterly torn. “Should I… Damnit, Bucky, I’m sorry. I just thought… I don’t know what to think right now.”

Bucky was shaking his head, he wasn’t even sure about what. He took another step back and then had to turn away, trying to breathe deeply and quietly, and to somehow bring quiet back to his own head.

For seemingly very long moments, it was almost too quiet. There was no sound coming from Steve, no movement to be heard, and Bucky was already doubting his own mind. He was rather sure that the kiss just now had actually happened, but Steve… had he actually kissed him back at all?

“Bucky? I…” Steve’s voice was uncertain and worried.

He shook his head again, this time to try and clear it, grimly willing for it to just _work_ , because he couldn’t mess this up.

“You shouldn’t let me do this,” he said then and turned back towards Steve, jaw set in determination. He knew it was better this way, and if there was anyone who deserved him doing the _right_ thing for once, it was Steve.

“Why?” was all Steve seemed capable of asking, confusion still written all over his features.

There was a whole bunch of reasons. Bucky started with, “Not just for my sake.”

The furrows on Steve’s forehead turned even deeper, and he shook his head, stepping one foot closer to Bucky again after all. “I’m not sure I understand what you’re saying. No, actually, I really don’t because you’re not making any sense right now.” He immediately looked guilty, shoulders slumped and his gaze softer as he inclined his head. “Sorry, but… what do you-- Did you _want_ to kiss me or was that just some…” He ended the question with another waving gesture, and Bucky just couldn’t look at him.

His mind was racing, overly aware now of the different outcomes this whole thing could have. And they all _hurt_.

“Doesn’t matter,” Bucky forced out, both hands clenched tightly into fists by his sides.

“Yes it does!” Steve replied, insisting but lacking vehemence. “Because if this was just some confused memory that took over then… then I’ll have to live with that. But if it wasn’t and if you actually wanted this, then I don’t understand what the problem even is.”

“What the…”

For a brief moment Bucky found himself speechlessly staring at Steve, his heart pounding now. He didn’t know what the _problem_ was?

“What the hell, Steve?” He didn’t exactly know why he was angry, but he suspected it was fuelled at least by quiet desperation. “You can’t be serious right now. What about this _isn’t_ a problem? What I want doesn’t matter, I’m not exactly right in the head. Not for making sensible decisions.”

If Steve had looked desperate and hurt before, now he looked utterly destroyed. He reached out on what seemed an impulse to touch Bucky, but he stopped himself a step away, just as Bucky barely refrained from stepping back.

“So you did want this,” Steve said, voice low, the words rather uttered to himself than Bucky, who could only shake his head again.

“Stop.”

It was so clear to see, plain as day, that Steve was desperate to understand, wanted to ask another question but was fighting with his guilty conscience to do what Bucky had asked of him. In the end, Steve walked back to the couch, letting himself fall onto it and burying his head in his hands.

Bucky was shaking. He couldn’t move, and there was a dull pain in his chest that wasn’t like anything physical he could remember. Bucky wanted to go to Steve, but was at a loss for what to do once they would be close again. So he stayed where he was and wondered if he could make Steve understand instead.

“You don’t even know me,” was what came out, his voice rough and brittle.

Steve looked up again. His gaze seemed to have lost all strength, and he looked tired, even. “That’s not true, Bucky. I’ve known you all my life, and I’ve known you so well that I can see there’s much more left of you than you want to believe. So don’t give me that. And if this… this whole thing is you being concerned about me then that just proved me right.”

The words made Bucky so angry, so desperately sad that he wanted to take Steve and shake him, but he still didn’t trust himself to get even one step closer to him again. In that moment he hated the ghost of that man whose face he was wearing, who was standing between them now. “No… _no_. You just think like that because you look at me and still see your best friend who dragged you to double dates and watched ships by the pier with you. But _I’m not_.”

“You remember that?” Steve said with  the tiniest shimmer of amazement, but looking  sad, resigned even, and the misery echoed in Bucky.

He closed his eyes in helpless frustration, turned away again and dragged his hand through his hair, too agitated to even think about sitting down, wanting to just _go_ , but still unable to move.

It took a few seconds for him to push most of the turmoil down inside him and turn back towards Steve. He would never get it, not with words. Steve wasn’t looking  at him anymore, forearms resting on his knees as his gaze was hidden, focusing on some spot by his feet. He was quiet for a long while.

“You know, when you... when you died I blamed myself for what happened,” he started then, his voice calm but clouded by a sadness Bucky couldn’t miss. “Peggy told me that I shouldn't, that it had been your decision to follow me, to fight with me, and that I couldn't have made that decision for you. So if you think you can’t make any decisions right now then that’s fine, don’t make them, I’ll accept that. But please don’t decide on my behalf what is best for me.”

Bucky had no idea what to say to that. Or what to think, really. He just stared at Steve, and when the doorbell disrupted the silence, it was almost a relief.

Steve looked up in surprise, gaze going from the door back to Bucky, until he finally got up from the couch, hurrying to the door with quiet steps and looking through the spyhole.

“It’s… um, it’s Natasha. My friend,” Steve said in Bucky’s direction, hand on the doorknob. Bucky didn’t wait for him to open the door. He slipped past Steve into the bedroom without a glance and snatched up hoodie to pull on.

It was the last reason and best excuse he had needed to get out of here.

 

***

 

There was another buzz of the doorbell before Steve finally opened, forcing on a casual and friendly smile on before she could lay eyes on him. “Natasha, hi. What brings you here?”

“Hi Steve. Just wanted to see how my favourite captain is doing,” she replied with a hint of a smile.

Under any other circumstances, Steve would have been glad to see her, but the moment had been the most unideal he could think of. He had thought, just moments before, that maybe his words had reached something in Bucky, some part that made him realise the reason for his inhibitions was rather absurd. That maybe, even if it wouldn’t lead to any real decisions today, they could have at least sat down and talked it over, calmly and sensibly, to figure out what they both wanted. Because so much was clear now - or at least clearer than it had been just half an hour ago, even clearer than Steve had allowed it to be for himself ever since that first kiss that had left him confused about his own feelings.

He was painfully aware of them now.

“I’m good,” he finally made himself say, pushing any thoughts of Bucky and their dilemma into the back of his mind as he bade her inside the apartment. “How about you?”

She looked at him for a moment longer before stepping inside. It looked like she was going to reply, but with the soft click of a door behind him she stopped, glancing past Steve.

Bucky didn’t look at either of them when he passed them, long sleeves covering his arms. “I’m going out,” he simply muttered.

Every sense in Steve tingled with alam, and he only gave Natasha a very brief glance, wordlessly asking her for patience and to stay where she was before he crossed the distance to the door and to Bucky. “It’s midday. What if someone sees you?”

“I’m good at not being seen,” Bucky replied without looking at him, rapidly stepping into his shoes.

Steve wanted to ask him to stay, even offer he’d tell Natasha to leave and meet him another time, but that, frustratingly, contradicted the point he had just tried to make a few minutes ago. “Be careful, okay,” he said instead and noticed how Bucky’s motions slowed for a moment, even though he still didn’t turn back. There was no answer as he straightened, put his hood up over his head, and slipped out the door.

Steve allowed himself a thin, half-suppressed sigh as he closed the door and turned back towards Natasha.

“He’s… not used to visitors,” he said, a white lie that he hoped would keep her from asking anything else.

Natasha, her arms crossed lightly in front of her chest, just looked at him for a long moment, tone serious as she asked, “Are you okay?”

He could have outright lied again, but something told him she would see right through him anyway, and so he just shrugged and decided to give her parts of the truth instead. “Yeah, mostly. It’s all been ups and downs, which, I suppose, is no surprise given the situation.”

Her eyes were kind, in a way that Steve had only ever seen while they had been on the run from SHIELD together. Eventually she nodded and briefly brushed her fingers over his arm. “Come on. I’ll make you a coffee.”

Despite everything, he couldn’t help letting out a small laugh. “Shouldn’t I make coffee for you, in my home?”

“I’m a super spy, Rogers, I can figure out where to find the coffee machine and how to operate it,” she replied and threw a small smile at him over her shoulder. “Besides, you look like you need one more than I do.”

So the fact that he hadn’t been sleeping well lately was something he couldn’t hide from her either.

“I didn’t say you wouldn’t know how,” he tried to say light-heartedly, but the smile remained absent from his features.

“It’s fine, Rogers,” Natasha replied with a brief glance back at him. “Just sit down and relax for a moment, okay?”

It didn’t really sound like a command, for that it was still said with too much honest sympathy. But the suggestion was clear enough nevertheless. And so Steve did just that, taking his seat on the couch again and listening to the buzzing sounds of the espresso maker.

He couldn’t help wondering how long Bucky was going to stay out.

“Any particular reason for your visit?” he called over as a means to distract himself from his own thoughts. “Not that I’m not happy to see you.”

“I was honest the first time around,” Natasha replied, and he could hear the wry smile in her words. “I really did want to see how you were doing. I’d have offered to come back later if the timing was inconvenient, but with what just happened, all you’d do would be to fret, so there’s probably no better time for me to be here.”

Apparently she was as good at reading people as Steve was bad at hiding his emotions. “Thanks for the company then,” he said genuinely. “And for the coffee,” he added as soon as she had come over, setting two cups of steaming espresso onto the table in front of them.

“You’re welcome,” she smiled and sat down half a seat away from him. For the moment it didn’t seem like she wanted to say anything else, and so they both drank their espresso in silence for a while. Eventually, Steve felt her gaze on him again.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Did he?

His instinct was to immediately say no. Having kissed - or having been kissed by - his best friend alone was reason enough to keep this to himself, though Steve knew that times had changed and that Natasha, of all people, would not judge him for it. Still, Steve had barely even come to terms with what the recent conflict had brought to the surface, that it had revealed feelings and thoughts he would not even have confessed to a priest in his time - probably least of all.

But a feeling deep in his gut, told him clearly he did not have the strength to pretend everything was alright, to keep it all locked up inside.

“It’s complicated,” he started, his gaze fixed on the dark-brown residue in the espresso cup he held in hands. “But… He’s been doing really great, you know? He remembers a lot already, more so since we went to Brooklyn. It’s coming back to him bit by bit, day by day. But… somehow it’s not enough for him, and he doesn’t really believe that there’s anything left of the person he used to be. And I don’t know how to make him see that he’s wrong.”

Natasha hummed softly, taking another sip in contemplation before she replied.

"It's only been a few weeks. These things… to figure out who he is, who he wants to be now, it takes time." She didn't look at Steve, but there was a contemplative expression on her face for a prolonged moment. "I don't think you should tell him that he's wrong at all."

“I wouldn’t exactly have used those words,” he disagreed, wishing he could explain how he needed Bucky to understand this, to gain some perspective and trust in himself. But he understood that maybe, forcing him in that direction when he didn’t really see it himself wasn’t the right approach.

“So you’re saying it just takes time. That, the more memories come back, the more he’ll understand he’s still himself. Well… mostly,” he said, shrugging softly and letting out a deep breath. “I mean… people change, and war changes people. Pretty sure I’m not the same person I was at eighteen, either.”

Natasha inclined her head a little, and looked into his eyes this time. "Steve, what you need to understand… No matter how many memories come back, even if they all come back, he might not ever see himself as the person you knew. It's… self-defence, in a way. Self-preservation. Otherwise he might always feel pressured to live up to his old self, someone who might always remain a stranger to him."

That didn’t relieve his worries at all, and for a brief, irrational moment, Steve regretted having started this conversation in the first place.

“Maybe I’m naive, then,” he said, and it only fully hit him now that he was expecting precisely what she just said might never happen. Optimistically, selfishly he just wanted his best friend back and that realisation made him feel very guilty. “What am I supposed to do?”

"Not look like a beaten puppy for starters, that's unbearable  to watch," she replied at first with a small smile, gently nudging his side. "It's not all that bleak, if you think about it. He's alive, after all this time, after everything that's been done to him. He's with you. And when the hard part is over, he might be just fine. You only need to make him understand that you’re giving him the freedom to choose who he wants to be. And that it's okay. We've all changed irreversibly at some part in our lives, like you said. And who knows, without that pressure, you might both like who that person turns out to be."

It did sound a lot more promising now, and Steve found himself smiling at her, even if it was just a small quirk of his lips that he knew didn’t really reach his eyes. “That’s the part I don’t think he really understands, though,” he added then. “That it doesn’t change the fact that I care about him. It’s like he thinks he’s some kind of burden to me, or… disappointment if he can’t be who he thinks I want him to be.”

Natasha didn’t look surprised at all, and she eyed him for a moment in thought, another minuscule smile on her lips. “But it’s not all bleak, is it?”

“No, of course it isn’t. He’s… Things are getting better, bit by bit. I think.” He hoped, but in the back of his mind there was a voice that made him wonder.

“Go on,” Natasha prompted, the smile on her lips turning a bit more prominent, encouraging, and maybe it was really good to get this all out, to hear himself speak about Bucky and sort through his sometimes conflicting, confusing thoughts. He let his gaze drift away, finding Bucky’s window sill, the one he sat on so often, especially during those first days when it had seemed like he had needed it more as a hiding place than simply to enjoy the view and the sunlight that streamed in.

“He’s… it’s like he’s gradually waking up. He was very quiet at first, didn’t ask any questions, not even about getting something to eat or drink. It was like he wasn’t used to be given any sort of choice in anything.” The recollection instantly made a dull sense of anger form in the pit of his stomach. “But it’s different now. He reads a lot, wants to know what happened in the world after the war, listens to music, watches TV. He acts more at home here now, and he smiles more often.” And how that had made him happy! The first small and tentative smiles had warmed Steve’s heart, relieved him of a dark, heavy weight in his chest. Those smiles alone, the way his voice sounded when he said Steve’s name, it still sometimes felt almost surreal to him. Almost too good to be true. And maybe that was enough already. At least for him it was. As for Bucky… that was a whole different matter Steve still found nearly impossible to comprehend.

“See, told you it’s not all that bleak,” Natasha smiled, having finished her espresso while Steve had talked. “So what about his memories? What kind of things does he remember? Has he told you?”

The first thing Steve thought of was that first kiss, but he couldn’t possibly mention that.

“Not always,” he replied. “Sometimes random little things like what we used to do when we were living in Brooklyn, a song, food he liked. Anything really. But he’s also remembered bigger things. He recognised his childhood home when we were there, remembered his family.”

“Nothing from his time with Hydra?” Natasha asked after a brief pause.

Steve frowned. “No. I mean… he’s already remembering that actively, I think. I’m not sure… I never asked him whether those were memories they let him keep.”

“I can't imagine there were many,” she slowly shook her head. “Look…” For the first time he saw her hesitate. “I'm happy that it went well for you so far. But he's lived through a lifetime of violence, and that doesn't just go away. I'd be lying if I said I haven't been worried, so yes, it really is good to hear that it's been going well so far. And I know you probably won't like this, and Bucky even less. But have you thought about letting him talk to someone who has experience with this? Someone professional?”

The mere suggestion would have been completely outrageous in his time, but Steve had already caught on that today’s society was a lot more open and supportive on these issues. He’d been offered counselling, too, after he had returned, but declined. And so far, he had been able to cope on his own. Mostly.

“I haven’t thought about it, no,” he replied then. “And I doubt he’d agree to that.”

Natasha nodded as if she hadn't expected anything different. “Just keep it in mind, okay? It’s a possibility and therapists aren't what they used to be in your time. And it does help. I just wanted to make sure you knew."

Steve eyed her for a brief moment, wondering whether she spoke out of experience, but he didn’t feel like he was in a place to ask her. So, instead, he just nodded.

Natasha gave him a small smile. "Should it ever come to it, I know that SHIELD had a few really good people in the field. Trustworthy people. Decisions like those can't happen overnight, but maybe you could mention it to him. Let him work with the thought."

Just then Natasha’s phone started vibrating and she pulled it out of her pocket to look at the screen, her brow furrowing slightly for a brief second.

"Excuse me for a moment," she said with an apologetic glance at Steve and stood up to retreat, taking the call with a clipped, "Yes?"

Steve didn’t pay attention to her conversation; he didn’t mean to eavesdrop on it anyway. His thoughts wandered, thinking about how he could introduce Bucky to the subject of talking to a psychologist. He found it difficult not to imagine himself in 1944 instead of 2014, in a time when doctors applied horrible methods to cure insane patients, and the most a soldier or any ordinary person could expect when they were suffering from mental issues that didn’t immediately send them to a mental ward was a prescription for ‘pick-me-ups’ made up of substances that were now known to be extremely dangerous and therefore illegal.

He wasn't sure how long Natasha was on the phone. When she returned just a few minutes later, her expression more serious than it had been before.

"Something's happened," she said and sat back down next to Steve, gaze evenly on him. "And if you're up for it, I could use your help."

 

***

 

Bucky had already reached the park when he realised that he knew the woman that he been standing in Steve's hallway. The name hadn't meant anything to him, and he hadn't paid attention to her before, but he had caught a brief glimpse of her face, and he _knew_ her. It had made his head hurt at first, and then his heart hammer. He slid down against the bark of a tree onto the grass. The late spring sun was warm on his skin, but he still just wanted to curl up right there and bury his head in his arms.

With the pain in his head that was now only a dull throb had come another memory. Of a car losing its grip on a road, of shooting someone. Right through her. The redhead in Steve's hallway.

Maybe, under other circumstances, he would have lingered on the memory, would have picked it apart, but his mind was filled with what had happened between him and Steve. He he couldn’t stop thinking about it, about that discussion, or whatever it was, that had left them both visibly shaken right down to the core.

Bucky had no idea what to do. And he was frustrated and _tired_ , mostly of himself. He just wanted to stop thinking for one goddamn second.

So he tried to push it all away as best as he could, all these thoughts, the memories, and just sat there, slightly too warm but that was better, always better than too cold, and just tried to keep his mind still for a while.

When Bucky looked up again next, the sun had moved considerably. He knew that Steve would worry if he stayed away for too long. So Bucky unfolded his legs, got to his feet, and returned home.

When he let himself in with the spare key he had taken from the side table in the hall when he had left, he found the other man standing by the kitchen counter in front of a notepad, pen in hand. He had changed his clothes, too: dark blue jeans and jacket over a grey t-shirt, sturdy shoes instead of his usually preferred sneakers.

“There you are,” he said in visible relief and let the pen drop to the counter surface.

There was something going on and Bucky felt himself tense.

"What's happening?"

The creases on his forehead and the way Steve avoided his gaze for a moment were so typical of him, the clear signs Bucky had come to know that Steve wasn’t sure how to approach a certain topic.

“Um… when Natasha was here she got a call from someone that needs her help. And, well, it’s more than a one-woman mission. I didn’t know when you’d be back. So I wanted to leave you a note.” The look he briefly gave Bucky now was definitely guilty.

"What kind of mission?" Bucky wanted to know immediately, gaze moving quickly between the note and Steve.

Before he replied, Steve checked his wristwatch and then threw a glance at his phone. “A scientist, Nathan Richmond, contacted her because his family is being held hostage. By someone… By Hydra. He’s a member of the President’s scientific advisors’ council. They want him to resign tomorrow and endorse one of their men to take over the post. They threatened to kill his wife and children. He only called Natasha because he figured once his successor was in place they’d kill him anyway.”

Something inside Bucky went very still and quiet. It wasn't that he'd _forgotten_ , in no way at all would that ever happen. But since he had followed Steve into this apartment, he hadn't even heard the word ‘Hydra’, not spoken out loud.

He had underestimated the way it still made his insides knot up. Maybe more now than ever before.

“They let him leave the house today to prepare his resignation,” Steve went on explaining. “They probably thought the leverage they had was enough for him not contacting anyone about it. Natasha is with him right now to prepare the mission plan. I’m… I’m supposed to meet her in twenty minutes. You weren’t here, and you don’t have a phone. I’d have waited, but…” He let the sentence open in the air, shrugging vaguely in an apologetic manner.

Bucky, however, barely listened to Steve's explanation. He looked up to meet his eyes, and he felt better anchored in the present again.

"I'm coming with you."

Steve’s shoulders slumped and he let out a long breath, hand reaching up to his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “I kind of expected you’d say that. But… it’s really not a good idea. You can’t be seen, Bucky. And Nat and I have faced much worse together before.”

"I told you," Bucky said, aware that his voice had gained a certain edge, "I'm good at not being seen."

He knew that Steve had done this often, that he had no need to expect that they couldn't succeed in saving those people. But it was Hydra. And no matter how hard or easy the mission was supposed to be, no matter if in this life or his last, Bucky would be damned if he let Steve go into this without him.

Another sigh came over Steve’s lips, but eventually he looked back into Bucky’s eyes, the thinnest of smiles on his lips as he nodded. “Probably shouldn’t have said anything about respecting each other’s decisions.”

"Damn right," Bucky replied without thinking, vaguely satisfied and relieved. Steve always wanted him to make decisions. He was making this one.

“Alright. Just let me call Natasha. She’s the boss this time, so we’ll both have to do what she says,” Steve said while he was already selecting her number from the contacts. Before he hit the dial button, he looked at Bucky again. “And I hope you understand how we’re doing things. The aim isn’t to kill them but to hand them over to the authorities.”

Bucky tried not to let it show that the words made something in him balk, and he wanted to say that he wouldn’t have done that, but he couldn't do that with solid conviction. Steve was right, he _was_ a killer, had been nothing but one for way too long. He wasn't sure what it was that actually hurt: that realisation, or that this was exactly what Steve thought of him, too.

"Understood."

“Good,” Steve replied, and there it was again, that small, encouraging smile that, right now, just felt patronising. Though Steve was probably not even aware of that.

A second later, he had the phone at his ear and, after two, three more, the call was answered. “Hey Nat, just wanted to tell you, I’m bringing company.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the cliffhanger...  
> We do hope you're enjoying the story! If you are, please let us know.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve, Bucky and Nat go on a mission.

Darkness had fallen a while ago. Steve was going over the mission plan with Bucky and Natasha one last time. They were standing in the shelter of trees and bushes by a small playground. It was a very green, very neat and rather wealthy neighbourhood, nothing as splendidly rich as where senators and other high-ranking politicians lived, but definitely one of the best areas in D.C. Lush front lawns with picket fences or hedges, large plots framed by trees to give each of the residents some privacy from their neighbours. He couldn’t hope for better circumstances to enter the premises unseen by anyone.

“All clear then?” Natasha asked and Steve nodded, looking in the direction he and Bucky would disappear in while Natasha would take the other. Her plan was to approach the house from the front, disable the communication in the surveillance van and then simply march up to the door and ring, all under the disguise of being an activist going from door to door to give out leaflets for some good cause. Steve and Bucky, on the other hand, would bypass the adjacent estate on the opposite side of the block, into the garden of the Richmond house and then in through the windows on the second floor.

According to Richmond, there were five men in the house and two in the van - easy enough for the three of them to manage. Yet, Steve couldn’t quite shake off the feeling of worry that something might go wrong. He would have preferred if Bucky had not  come with them. Not because he didn’t trust his abilities or even his agreement to not kill any of the Hydra operatives, but rather because he wished he could have spared Bucky ever having to meet these people again.

“All clear,” he confirmed, pushing his thoughts to the back of his mind and focusing on the job instead. He checked his wristwatch and set the timer to five minutes, waiting for Natasha to give him the ‘go’. By then, he and Bucky had to be inside, having taken out the men individually in charge of the wife and the children and ready to take out the third on the hallway. If all went well, it would give Natasha enough time to incapacitate the other two guards on the first floor before they even noticed something was wrong upstairs.

Bucky hadn't said a lot ever since they had left the apartment, but he had very clearly paid close attention to everything Natasha and Steve had said. There was a look of concentration on his face, one Steve remembered from way back, from intensely quiet build ups to missions against Hydra bases with the Howling Commandos. It was strangely reassuring in the face of everything else that had happened.

Natasha, he guessed, would have preferred to only have Steve with her for this, but she hadn’t said anything about it. Maybe because she understood more about Bucky's situation than Steve ever would.

She sent them off with a long glance, and Bucky followed Steve without a word, without a sound even. It was eery sometimes, how quietly he could move.

The house they needed to pass didn’t have a fence around the front yard, just one further back beside the garage, and it was easy for both of them to jump over it after having checked that nobody was around to see them. From the few lit windows of the house itself nobody could have seen them anyway, not with the near complete darkness against the brightness of the rooms.

Staying close to the fence, they quickly made their way through the large backyard. Separating it from the Richmond’s was a brick wall, roses and other twines growing up its face. Steve briefly thought that he should have put some gloves on, but before he could really think about it any further, a brief gesture from Bucky diverted his attention.

The black sweater he had pulled on made it hard to make out his silhouette in the dark, but Steve could see his face, and the way he wordlessly told Steve he'd give him a boost up.

He couldn’t help releasing a small, breathy chuckle, and his heart ached in the most pleasant way; it was bittersweet but, right now, it was just too easy to imagine those seventy years had never happened.

“Thanks,” he muttered before he stepped onto Bucky’s interlaced hands, jumping over the high wall with just the support of one hand on its upper ledge.

It took only a moment for Bucky to follow, the soft whirring the only sound to be heard as he jumped up and grasped the ledge to pull himself up with both arms. He landed quietly next to Steve, gaze already scanning the exterior of the house in search for the best way up.

The house had two storeys and an attic, a big patio with stairs leading up to the deck and the pool; the garage was on the left side, and, above it, with a window looking out towards the back, the master bedroom. The room where, according to Richmond, the children had been kept at least until this morning was on the opposite side, its window overlooking the small strip of grass going past the house towards the front yard.

“Ready?” he asked in a whisper.

Bucky threw him a brief glance before his attention was returned to the path.

"Yes," he said belatedly, and then, without another glance back, he left.

Steve barely wasted a second to watch him go before he jogged up to the garage and, aiding himself with the rainwater pipe, he climbed up with two swift movements. He approached the window from the roof of the garage, back pressed to the outer wall. The room was brightly lit, so he could risk a glance without being seen. As soon as he had done so, however, Steve suppressed a curse. The Hydra guard was sitting on a chair, diagonally facing the corner between bed and window. Steve briefly considered his options: ripping the window open would give the guard too much time to react, pull his weapon and threaten Mrs. Richmond; kicking the pane in or throwing his shield through it would be the least favourable choice in any case - loud enough to alert at least the other guard on the hallway, or wherever he was at this moment - and particularly dangerous since the woman was sitting on the edge of the bed, too close to the window to escape unscathed.

Steve let out a deep breath in frustration. He needed to find another way in, and he only had two minutes left to do so.

 

***

 

It was easy, too easy maybe, to slip into the overwhelmingly familiar mindset of working through the necessary steps of a mission. It had been jarring at first, to see Steve's face when he fell too deeply into that kind of focus, but Bucky was now grateful for it. It anchored him in the present, reminded him that he wasn't on his own, and that he wasn't doing it for Hydra. That this, here, had been his own choice, and that no one was going to die tonight.

It was too damn easy to reach the window of the lowly lit room that had been his goal, and Bucky almost wanted to laugh when he realised that the window wasn't even entirely closed, not locked on the inside. Under the cover of darkness he risked one quick glance inside, took in the interior of a spacious children's room, a boy, maybe ten, and a girl, roughly fourteen, huddled together on the bed, her arm around his shoulders. And one Hydra operative, dressed in black, patrolling the room casually, one Ruger strapped to his belt, another in hand but pointed down.

All that was left was just waiting for the right moment.

The window slid open easily, and Bucky dropped into the room, moving before the other man even had time to realise there was a threat to raise his weapon at. Bucky took it from him the second he was in arm's reach, and the man managed to block his first attack, eyes wide in surprise, before he went down with a wheezing sound. Bucky just caught the back of his collar to break his fall and prevent any sound as he lowered him to the ground and turned towards the kids.

The girl had her hand clasped over her wide-eyed brother's mouth, and Bucky felt something tug weakly on the corners of his mouth in appreciation.

“Who are you?” she asked with shaky voice, very obviously forcing herself to keep it down as much as she could while her chest was heaving with frightened breaths. The boy seemed to struggle for a moment longer, but something in his sister’s touch seemed to calm him enough to not make a sound.

This was new. Definitely not a situation Bucky had needed to face before.

"I'm…" he started quietly but didn't know how to go on, because 'one of the good guys' certainly didn't sound right. To buy himself some time, he bent down to make sure the guy really was out, secured his hands on his back and collected his weapons.

"I'm here to help," he eventually settled on and glanced back to the two kids. He carefully stepped closer, ready to stop should either of them look like they would panic.

The boy still seemed frightened but slowly relaxed a bit in his sister’s embrace. The girl, however, eyed him with her head slightly tilted to the side, her eyes widening as she spotted his metal hand. Whether or not that changed her willingness to trust him she didn’t let it show. “You know he wasn’t the only one here, right?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.

If Bucky was honest with himself, he had no idea how to handle children. All he had to go by was some kind of instinct that whispered in the back of his mind, vague, fuzzy memories of his sisters, but he had no time contemplating and analysing them. And so he just followed a gut-feeling, crouching down to… appear less threatening, maybe, having to look up at them slightly now.

He nodded, and felt the briefest, smallest smile flicker over his lips as he replied.

"Neither am I."

He knew he needed to move, but took just one more moment for this.

"You're both alright?"

Finally, the boy seemed to lighten up and nodded, adding a whispered “yes.”

“There’s one guy with our mom and another one somewhere out on the hall,” the girl said, and Bucky gave a brief nod.

"I know. Just stay quiet, I'll be done in a moment."

He wasn't sure whether he had managed to sound reassuring enough, but the kids both nodded, so Bucky didn't waste any more time. He just stopped briefly to make sure, once again, that the man on the ground was still out cold, and then slid into place by the door, ear pressed to it lightly, one hand on the ground, and listened.

 

***

 

Steve knew he had only seconds to devise a secondary plan. He briefly considered going in through the bathroom, but since it was right next to the master bedroom and he didn’t know whether he could have opened the window soundlessly, he decided against it. Climbing up onto the roof, he let himself in through the attic window that gave way after a few forceful tugs upward, hoping nobody underneath had heard the sound. He had to move quickly. Natasha should be in by now and, if all had gone well, and Bucky should be with the kids. One of them would  find and incapacitate the third guy who, Steve was hoping, hadn’t joined the other two on the first floor in the meantime.

Removing the ladder from the trap door, he got onto his belly and listened, lifting the wooden hatch just an inch to get a peek. Immediately, he caught a movement passing right underneath him, and a second later he could see the man, dressed all in black, gun in its holster and hands busy with the front of his slacks. Steve was suddenly very grateful he had discarded the idea to go in through the bathroom. He opened the trapdoor a bit further, fingertips digging into the handle not to let it drop.

When he stuck his head out to get a better overview of the long hallway, he saw the guy turn around at the end of it, looking more bored than like he was actually trying  to patrol the house. Steve quickly pulled the trapdoor shut again before the man could spot him.

Barging in somewhere, shield raised against a group of opponents with weapons was one thing; sneaking into a private home, every move carefully timed to ensure the safety of hostages was a different thing altogether.

He heard the steps approaching, a slow, leisurely stroll, and Steve got ready to drop the hatch at the right moment, ideally simply knocking the guard out with the edge of it and alternatively letting himself fall to tackle him as he passed. But neither was  needed.

He could hear the faintest sound of a door creaking, then a faint thud and a muffled groan almost directly underneath him, not loud enough to be heard through any closed doors but distinguishable to Steve, enough to unmistakably guess what had just happened.

Steve pushed the trap door open until it hung from its hinges and then let himself down, landing on his feet as quietly as he could right next to Bucky - who didn’t even flinch - and the unconscious man on the floor.

“The kids?” he asked in a whisper.

"They’re good," Bucky whispered back, taking a knife from the man on the ground and holding the gun out for Steve to take. "I'll get the woman," he added, but glanced up to wait for Steve's okay first.

Steve just gave him a shrug, suppressing the impulse to both think and mention that he was being rather useless at the moment.

No further word uttered between them, Steve tied the unconscious guard’s hands and headed towards the staircase to see whether Natasha was doing fine with her two opponents. Not completely open, the half moon staircase allowed him to see  the living area only from around halfway down, but it was enough for Steve to see the feet of the first unconscious body on the ground somewhere near the entrance and hear the brief sounds of a struggle from around the corner: a painful, strangled cry, then a slightly higher-pitched groan, a kick and a thud, and all went quiet again.

They were followed by the relieved sighs of Mr. Richmond as Steve descended the stairs until the end and saw Natasha standing in the middle of the living room above the second knocked-out Hydra agent who was bleeding uglily from his nose and mouth.

He really could have stayed at home.

The moment Richmond caught sight of him coming down the stairs, his relief became visible in his expression. He started to walk towards him, undoubtedly about to say something when the front door opened.

"Are your comms still w-" The guy must have come in from the van following the breakdown of their communications, and the second he caught sight of them in the living room, he drew his weapon with lightning speed.

But Steve was just as fast. His shield whirled through the air quicker than the man could have pulled the trigger, hitting his right hand and propelling the gun out of it. The thud of it hitting the floor was followed by a loud howl of pain. Steve was sure he’d completely broken the man’s hand and wrist, something he certainly wasn’t going to feel any pity for.

“The other guy?” he asked Natasha before he paid Richmond any attention. He would have gone after the second one in the van himself, but he’d have preferred to go upstairs to check if Bucky was doing alright.

"On it," Natasha merely replied and slipped past the Hydra operative and out of the door.

 

***

 

With the third one Bucky wasn't nearly as careful to be quiet as with the first two, because Natasha should already be busy downstairs, and since Steve had joined her, he'd been sure that there hadn't been any problem on that end.

The man put up more of a fight too, a few seconds at least, well-trained, strong and light on his feet, and not so easily surprised. But Bucky thought he saw a flicker of something like recognition on his face just before he knocked him out with his left hand, and when he stood over the prone figure on the ground, he wasn't sure what to think of that.

Before he really had time to make up his mind, a voice drew him back to the present.

“Who are you? Where are my children?” the woman asked, her tone shriller than her daughter’s, panic and worry in it as probably only a mother is a similar situation could feel them. She was already on her feet, caring less about his reply than getting to her kids.

"They're fine," he just said, because, funnily, he found himself even more out of his depth with her than with her kids. And since he didn't know what else to say, he quickly bent down to disarm the man lying by his feet, turned, and left the room. There were pained sounds coming from downstairs, but the voice wasn't known to him and there weren't any other worrying things to be heard so he crossed the hall and opened the door to the children's room again.

“Mom!” the boy was the first to cry out as he ran towards her, catching her even before she could enter the room, and the daughter followed a moment later, both of them being caught by their mother’s arms, huddled together and crying in sheer relief.

“I’m okay, baby, I’m okay,” Mrs Richmond affirmed, kissing first the boy’s forehead, then the girl’s.

Bucky, having retreated from the doorway instinctively, stared, that strange tightness still in his chest.

As soon as Mr Richmond was able to join his wife and children he wrapped his arms tightly around them, his eyes watery as well as he just muttered small words of gratitude and relief.

In that moment, Bucky’s eyes found Steve’s, and they both stayed back, giving the family some room.

“Good job,” Steve said and lightly touched Bucky’s upper arm, the words and gesture oddly familiar but at the same time… different.

Certainly nothing Bucky could actively remember anyone ever having said to him before.

He had no idea what to say to that. “No problem downstairs?” he asked, instead.

Steve shook his head but then inclined it in a faint shrug. “One of the guys from the van stormed in. Gave me something to do after all,” he said with a small quirk of his lips.

Bucky wasn’t quite sure if Steve was actually joking now, so he again opted not to reply. He was saved from having to come up with something else to say when, in that moment, the family turned back towards them, the mother somewhat reluctantly letting go of her children at last. “Thank you, thank you so much!” she said teary-eyed.

The boy as well as the girl, however, stared at Steve as soon as they spotted him in the hallway, shield loosely in his grip, only now recognising who it was that helped save them.

“Oh my God,” the girl said, visibly stunned, and Bucky watched in mild fascination as a wide grin spread on the boy’s face, as though his fear from before was already forgotten.

“You’re Captain America!”

“Uh… Yes,” said Steve, giving the children a kind smile.

“We can’t thank you enough, Captain Rogers,” Richmond now said, taking a step towards Steve and extending his hand for a shake before he approached Bucky with the same gesture. “And you and Agent Romanoff as well.”

“Black Widow is here, too?” the girl exclaimed in excitement.

Bucky would have preferred retreating into a shadowy corner to shaking the man’s hand, but he did it anyway. Richmond looked… grateful, beyond belief, but Bucky couldn’t help wondering whether the reaction would have been the same, had he known who Bucky really was.

“Yeah, she’s downstairs. Still had to take care of something,” Steve replied to the girl’s question, drawing attention away from him again, and Bucky gratefully stepped back, further into the corner of the hallway.

The boy, however, followed him away from the others, inclining his head as he looked at Bucky’s left hand. “Is your whole arm made of metal or just the hand?” he asked with childlike curiosity, seeming fascinated rather than shocked or appalled. Bucky couldn’t keep his gaze from flickering towards the other people, but, to his relief, their attention was still on Steve. So he let himself slide down the wall into a light crouch until he was on eye-level with the boy. He hesitated for a moment, looking at his open, curious face, and then, feeling strangely helpless at so much innocent interest, he pulled the sleeve of his sweater higher to show the metal that expanded further up his arm.

“The whole thing,” he said quietly, glad for at least the illusion of momentary privacy.

“Cool!” said the boy, brown eyes wide with awe, and Bucky might not have understood that reaction at all, but he found a small smile tug on the corners of his lips.

“Aiden, baby, come back here,” the boy’s mother ended their conversation before he could think of anything to reply, her voice gentle and barely admonishing, despite the apologetic gaze she gave Bucky. The boy followed the request after only a moment’s hesitation, and Bucky instinctively pulled his sleeve down again, as far as it went. He really wanted to get away from so many people, the adults in particular still making him uneasy.

So he slipped past Steve and the family, and he wondered quietly what it said about him that returning to the knocked out Hydra operative in the master bedroom to tie him up as well felt better to him than staying with the others in the hall had.

It seemed like the thought hadn’t come one moment too early. Just when he reached the bedroom door, the softest sound of a small groan sounded from within, and Bucky already pulled out the plastic restraints Natasha had handed out earlier. The man was coming to, blinking sluggishly from the blow that had sent him under, and his gaze found Bucky just as he heard soft, carpet-muffled steps behind him indicating that Steve must have heard as well.

The man looked at Bucky, a nasty grin pulling one corner of his mouth. “Biting the hand that fed you, are you?”

There was no urgent need to incapacitate him; he was barely able to get to his own feet, and yet the words had prompted Steve to rush past Bucky, into the bedroom, to haul the man up by the collar of his jacket.

“Why don’t you shut your mouth?” There was more anger and loathing in Steve’s voice than Bucky had ever heard from him before Steve pushed him against the wall, uncaring for the way he hit his head on it. Possibly even having counted on it.

For a moment Bucky didn’t know how to react. Not because of what the man had said, but because of Steve, because of the sudden explosion of anger and harshness that just… wasn’t him.

“Steve.”

It was the only thing he could think of. Telling him to stop seemed redundant, asking what he was doing pointless.

Steve blinked, his nostrils still flaring with anger, but Buck’s voice seemed to call him back to reason. The grim expression didn’t fade from his features completely, though, not even as he let go of the man, letting his back slam against the wall once more, if only lightly.

The man didn’t resist when Bucky tied his hands behind his back, barely able to remain on his feet anyway. A second later, he heard hurried footsteps on the staircase.

Steve turned to Bucky and said, voice hushed, “You’d better get out of here before the FBI arrives. Natasha and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Bucky knew that Steve was right, even if it went against every instinct in him to simply leave now. It took a moment’s hesitation before he could nod.

“Don’t do anything stupid,” he found himself saying as he stepped back, gaze still fixed on Steve as he retreated backwards towards the window.

Steve’s eyes widened slightly, the only visible reaction to Bucky’s words. But there was something there, something Bucky could hardly grasp. Then, Steve just nodded and, as Natasha had joined them on the second floor hallway, turned towards her.

It was enough reassurance in that moment, to know that Steve wasn’t alone, and that he had actually reached something in him with what he had said, to be able to turn around and let himself out of that window without further hesitation.

But his heart didn’t stop hammering all the way back to the apartment.

 

***

 

Steve and Natasha only had minutes before the FBI and later a few men of the Secret Service arrived at the scene, to convince the Richmond family to leave  the fact that they had been rescued by three, not two people out of the reports. It had been easy to convince the parents; they were so grateful at this point that they would have agreed to nearly anything as a favour in return. However, while agents talked to all four family members Steve could not shake of the worry that one of the kids, the boy in particular, might let something slip. The presence of a third person could be explained in many ways, but someone only had to mention so much as ‘metal arm’ and the federal agents would immediately draw the conclusion Steve wanted to avoid at all costs.

He did not want to, not at this point at least, but he couldn’t help the thought from reminding him  that, sooner or later, they’d have to deal with this. Bucky certainly couldn’t hide in Steve’s apartment forever.

He checked his watch, wondering how much longer they had to stay here. The little boy, Aiden, had fallen asleep, cuddled up to his mother’s side on the couch, and the rest of the family looked exhausted, only being kept awake by their obvious need to be close to one another, to hold each other’s hands in relief, having gotten through this and being safe again.

But of course, their lives would not go back to normal overnight; security measures were currently being discussed and phone calls made to ensure the family’s safety in the aftermath of the hostage-taking. It was good to see that they weren’t being left alone with this, but Steve highly doubted Hydra would attempt a second move anyway.

The only things that were of any interest to Steve right now were whether the Hydra scientist that was supposed to take Richmond’s place after his resignation had been successfully apprehended; and, if he hadn’t, whether his and Natasha’s help was needed in assisting to do so. He was waiting on his own, leaning back against the wall in an unoccupied part of the living room and watching the men and women around the Richmonds talk, when Natasha slid into place next to him, mirroring his position.

“I haven’t said thanks for your help yet.”

Steve let out a small, huffed chuckle. “Don’t mention it. I wasn’t exactly the most useful in this endeavour anyway.”

She regarded him with a small, indulgent smile. “Always modest. You had your moment.”

“Yeah. Well,” Steve replied, returning her smile. “Most assignments I’ve been on so far were a bit more… big guns and flying fists. Less _Mission Impossible_.”

“To be fair,” Natasha gave a small shrug, “you wouldn’t ever have been called in for something small like this, before.”

“No, probably not. That was more your forté. Sneak in like a cat before anyone could even notice.”

“Oh you’ve done your fair share of sneaking yourself. You’re not so bad.” Her smile grew a little.

Steve felt the corners of his mouth quirk upwards a bit more, too. “Well, in any case, I’m glad I could help. I guess Clint’s not in D.C. right now?” he asked, quite certain he knew the answer. If he had been, Natasha would have surely asked him first.

This time her smile grew warmer as she broke their gaze and glanced over at the cluster of people again. “He’s still on vacation. Had the worst track record when it came to SHIELD giving him time off, or not being called back before his holiday even started, so that was a definite priority. He’s milking it for all it’s worth.”

“Good for him,” Steve said, no intention of sarcasm in his words. “What about you though? No desire to just lie at a beach and drink margaritas?”

“I’ve done that,” Natasha replied to his surprise. “But I’m not one for being idle too long.”

He had the feeling there was more to it than what she had just said, but that happened often with Natasha. A multitude of unspoken words layered behind those that were said out loud.

It wasn’t his place to pry, though.

An agent returned from the kitchen where he had retreated to make his calls, and approached them, gaze and demeanor clearly telling that he had important - and hopefully good - news.

“Our agents apprehended the Hydra mole. He had no idea their effort had gone awry,” he informed Steve and Natasha, and a satisfied smile spread on his lips. “Caught a few more operatives at his house, too. That’s ten for tonight.”

“Sounds like a good quota to me,” Natasha said, and while her face had gone back to pure professionalism, there was hard satisfaction behind her words.

The man nodded. “Thank you both for your help. If anything more arises, you’ll be given word.”

Steve just nodded and requited the thanks, but he did hope the following Hydra agents’  interrogations would not put them on Bucky’s track. At least one of them had actively recognised him.

Natasha waited until the man had left them, they had said goodbye to the Richmonds, and were out the door in the cool, refreshing night air.

“I doubt he’ll talk,” she said without preamble, and Steve knew immediately who she meant.

“I hope you’re right,” he said, trying to weigh the pros and cons of her assessment. “Unless he thinks he can bargain that information for a better deal for himself.”

“Not if he’s loyal to Hydra. They want to find him themselves, not lead others to him.”

He knew she had a point, but loyalty wasn’t something he’d strictly associate Hydra agents with.

Nevertheless, he decided to leave it at that as they reached the corner of the street, not far from where Natasha had parked her car earlier tonight. Under other circumstances, he would have simply gone back home on foot; the distance wasn’t long, not for him, at least. Right now, however, he preferred not to waste any more time. “Mind dropping me off?”

“Hop in,” was the immediate invitation he received in return, when they reached her car.

As she started the engine and slowly drove off through the neighbourhood, Steve remained quiet, his thoughts still circling over all possible scenarios and their outcome, and no matter whether he believed Natasha’s words or not, sooner or later hiding in plain sight was not going to be an option anymore. At least not one Bucky deserved.

“Have you ever thought about simply disappearing?” Steve asked before he had even thought it through to the end. “Not recently, I mean. Just…”

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Natasha’s gaze shifting briefly to him. “Leave it all, take one of my covers and make it my identity?” she asked after a moment for clarification.

“Yeah, something like that,” he replied, despite knowing that he didn’t even have any covers.

She was quiet for a few moments, the sounds of the engine the only thing to fill the silence.

“Maybe. Once or twice,” she admitted eventually, voice quiet.

“What stopped you?”

“Wanting to make amends,” Natasha replied after another moment. “People I’d have to leave behind and disappoint.”

For very personal reasons, Steve was grateful she had made that decision. It occurred to him then that he hardly had anyone to leave behind and disappoint and no amends to make anymore other than to Bucky. It was rather a shocking thought.

He tried to imagine it for a moment, what their life could look like if they simply took off and started afresh somewhere far away. But as promising as that alternative had seemed for a second or two, as soon as he did try to picture it in detail he was sure that that couldn’t work, either. Where were they even supposed to go? Some cabin in the woods to live out their lives outside of society and any connected dangers? It seemed ridiculous, and just as unlikely as imagining their future in the current constraints of Steve’s apartment. What would _their_ future  look like in any case? That was a whole different question he had no better and more conclusive answer for than the first.

“Steve?”

He was pulled back to the present by Natasha’s quiet voice, and though she wasn’t looking at him, there was something in her tone that, for all her hard edges and masks and professionalism, was uncharacteristically vulnerable.

“Don’t leave without letting me know.”

He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t going go anywhere, or something else that would put both her and his own mind at ease. Unfortunately, he had no idea what that could be.

So instead, he just gave her a faint nod and a smile. “Okay. I promise,” he said but hoped it wouldn’t come to him having to keep it.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is an unexpected invitation, an offer and an opportunity.

Despite a job well-done, Steve didn’t find sleep easily. Too many thoughts going through his mind. Those that made it particularly difficult for him to relax and fall asleep seemed even harder to face than those on Bucky’s safety. Steve found himself desperately trying to push them away as so often before, but no matter how hard he had tried, he could not stop thinking about it. About those two kisses. About how much he wanted more of them; and about how wrong that possibly was.

He knew times had changed significantly. The fact that it was another man he was having these feelings for was not the reason he felt a heavy weight of guilt sitting on his chest. Bucky may have had it completely backwards, but there’d been one thing he’d been right about: he wasn’t exactly in a place to make any such decisions, and Steve should not try to push him, least of all out of pure selfishness.

The following morning was as quiet between them as the previous evening had been - that odd tension still between them making the comfortable conversations they had begun to have difficult. But Steve was damned if he didn’t at least try.

“I was wondering what we should have for dinner tonight,” he started casually when he sat at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, sipping on his second cup of coffee after breakfast. “Anything particular you’d like? I’ve got to head out and buy some things anyway.”

He didn’t get a reply immediately. Bucky had his hands wrapped around his own cup, looking tired. Eventually, he shook his head.

“That’s okay,” Steve said quickly, though he was never fully able to tell whether something was bothering Bucky more than usual or whether he simply didn’t have an answer. “I’ll just see what I can find. Maybe some seasonal vegetables. And steak? You okay with that?”

Bucky’s gaze flickered up to him then, and the corners of his mouth twitched weakly. “You can cook steak?”

The troubled, strained mood dissipated then, as it had every time Bucky had  remembered little things. Steve found himself fighting down the smirk that tugged at his lips to keep an even expression. “Of course I can. Especially if you like an element of surprise.”

Bucky’s eyebrow rose up a fraction. “Surprise in a steak?”

Steve let out a small chuckle. "Yeah. You won't know whether it's rare or over-cooked."

That drew a soft, strangled sound from Bucky’s lips that could very well be amusement. “Need any help?”

"Feel free to take over," Steve replied with a faint shrug. And maybe he had painted things too black after all. With a few gentle nudges in the right direction, their regular interaction was back to normal; at least they could talk and enjoy themselves, and that should be enough for Steve.

"At least I seem to make decent spaghetti and meatballs. Unless you didn't tell me the truth about that."

The corners of Bucky’s lips twitched again. “I could mention now that my experience with food is limited to your cooking and takeaways, and that I lack comparison.”

“That’s very encouraging,” Steve replied drily. “There’s no point in asking you if I should get mangel or spinach, is there? Or do you remember hating those?”

“Steve,” Bucky said then, and his tone as well as his face were more serious now as he made a point to hold his gaze. “Compared to what I remember, everything is an improvement. So when I say ‘I don’t care’, I don’t mean that _I don’t care_.” He paused for a moment before continuing, his voice quiet. “It’s all good.”

“I was just trying to make a joke,” Steve said, not wanting to lose that lighthearted mood between them over something like green vegetables. “Because most people hate spinach. But I get that you won’t give me a full shopping list, and that’s absolutely fine too. Just be glad beets are out of season. ”

Bucky looked at him for a moment longer, and then finally broke their gaze, raising his cup of coffee to his lips.

“As long as you don’t serve me boiled cabbage.”

Steve gave Bucky a smile. He just wanted to add that it wasn’t in season either when the doorbell rang, and his first glance went to his cell phone to check whether he had missed a text from Natasha or Sam. He hadn’t.

An odd sense of foreboding made the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. “Um, why don’t you go wait in the bedroom while I check who that is. Maybe it’s just the maintenance guy for the fire alarm coming early.”

Before Steve had really finished his sentence, Bucky had gathered his cup and had gotten to his feet. “Yeah, I’ll go and not be here,” he said and slipped past Steve, the bedroom door clicking shut softly behind him a moment later.

The bell rang a second time, and Steve hurried to the door, glimpsing through the spyhole first. And as he’d feared, the person in front of it was neither one of his friends nor a handyman but someone dressed in a black suit, striped tie and a pair of sunglasses sticking out from the breast pocket. Steve had a very good idea of who that person worked for.

He schooled his expression, putting a friendly smile on, and opened the door. “Good morning,” he said to the man he could now clearly recognise by the small badge at the lapel of his jacket as one of the Secret Service. “I’m sorry, I was just getting dressed,” he added to explain the delay and just in case the agent had heard the bedroom door close. “What can I do for you?”

“Captain Rogers,” the other man acknowledged him formally, “I’m here to extend an invitation from the White House.”

Steve couldn’t quite keep his brows from rising a fraction, and he quickly tried to go through the various possible reasons for the invite. The more optimistic and as he hoped likeliest one was that either a member of the President’s cabinet or the President himself wanted to discuss last night’s events, possibly thank him and make sure he could count on Captain America’s support in the future. If he was being _too_ optimistic, however…

“I suppose you’re here to drive me there right away?” he asked, tone still even and casual, and the man nodded, adding, “If you’re available, sir.”

“Of course. Give me a minute, I’ll just change into something more appropriate,” he said and, acting as if that was the only option that came to his mind, closed the door in the agent’s face. The smile disappeared from his features instantly as he rushed into the bedroom where Bucky was sitting against the headboard on the bed, legs pulled close to him, cup cradled in his lap. He glanced over at Steve and silently raised his eyebrows in question.

Steve just raised his forefinger to his lips before he quickly pulled sweatshirt and t-shirt over his head and took a light-blue button-up shirt from his closet. Still closing his buttons, he got to Bucky’s side, lowering his voice to a faint whisper just in case the agent outside was using a listening device to make sure he wasn’t contacting anyone.

“Don’t be alarmed, I’m sure it’s fine,” he said as faintly as he could. “But I want you to… wait,” he quickly but quietly opened the drawer of his nightstand, taking out his small moleskine notebook and a pen to scribble down an address and Natasha’s phone number onto a page. He tore it out, folded it up and put it into Bucky’s palm, grasping it with both his hands tightly for a moment. “Go there and wait. Can you do this?”

Despite his words there was, unsurprisingly, alarm on Bucky’s face as he studied Steve’s eyes for a moment, and then glanced down at the piece of paper that had been pressed into his hand.

“Are you in trouble?” was what he said back softly when he looked at Steve again, and his eyes were determined, ready to put his foot down, Steve suspected, if he got the feeling that his reply might not be entirely serious.

Steve shook his head, keeping Bucky’s gaze firmly. And then, following an impulse, he leaned in more closely and laid his hand on Bucky’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I’m making sure _you_ aren’t.”

The words didn’t exactly ease that look from Bucky’s face, and he studied Steve’s eyes again. Eventually he gave a soft “Okay” as reply.

Steve let out a breath in relief and straightened up again, pushing his shirt inside his slacks.

“Wait until the car drives off and then leave,” he whispered again and, just before heading towards the door, he pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Here, take this.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered from the phone back to Steve’s face as he slipped off the bed. “What about you? How am I supposed to reach you if I need to?”

“You can call Nat. I’ll be okay,” he said, once more crossing the distance between them to lay his hand at the back of Bucky’s neck. “Please, take it.”

It had been an involuntary gesture, simply meant to reassure, and for a split-second Steve felt the overwhelming urge to lean in and press a kiss to Bucky’s lips,as if, in that short moment, it was the most natural thing to do.

He retreated quickly, heart hammering. Bucky’s face was unreadable as he stared at him.

Steve left the bedroom without another word, determined to hide his thoughts and emotions from the man waiting for him in front of the apartment.

It would all go well. He’d see Bucky again in just a few hours.

It would all go well.

 

***

 

It became very clear to Steve that he was, in fact, about to meet the president when he was lead into the Oval Office. Ellis was not there yet but instead his Chief of Staff and another person. Steve couldn’t recognise him, but he must be a lower-ranking staff member since his task seemed to be to offer Steve drinks. He declined coffee, tea and juice  and asked for a glass of water instead, careful to hide any of the nervousness he was feeling.

“I’ve never been here before,” he said conversationally, and the man who was just pouring him a glass of water glanced briefly over at the chief of staff before giving Steve a smile.

“Maybe it’s about time.”

“I had an invitation from President Roosevelt once. Never made it,” Steve said, returning the smile, and the other man gave a slight shake of his head with a soft, incredulous laugh.

Before he had the time to reply, however, the white door to Steve’s right opened and three men came in. All three of them were clad in suits, but while two of them stepped to the side and took their places by the exit of the room, President Ellis’ eyes immediately settled on Steve, and he approached him to offer his hand.

“Captain Rogers, I’m glad you could make it.”

“Thank you, Mr. President,” Steve said and stood up to shake his hand in greeting. The hand was dry and warm, the grasp firm. Ellis’ features as well as his posture spoke of openness and integrity that didn’t make it hard to imagine why the man had made it as far as he had. “For inviting me. It’s an honour, sir.”

“I would like to say the same,” Ellis smiled and covered their clasped hands with his left for a moment before the contact broke and he motioned to the two sofas instead. “Please, feel free to sit.”

Steve nodded his thanks and took his seat again opposite of the president. He still wanted to know what the main reason for his invitation was, but it didn’t seem wise to appear impatient.

“It _does_ look different than in the movies,” Steve said casually as he looked around the room. “It’s rather impressive to see it in person.”

“I’m sure you’re aware that you inspire similar sentiments in a lot of people,” the older man replied genially, having sat down opposite Steve.

The soft laugh that came over Steve’s lips was nothing but genuine, even despite the tension he still felt in his shoulders and down his spine. “If I’m being honest I have to say I’m mostly avoiding situations in which that theory can be tested.” The statement wasn’t free of humour, but Steve had gotten enough of being displayed as something akin to a circus curiosity for at least two lifetimes.

“I believe the idea alone is enough more often than not. Captain Rogers, I wanted to thank you in person,” Ellis changed the topic, steepling his fingers between his knees. “For your and Agent Romanoff’s help concerning Mr. Richmond, but not only that. I believe I’d be dead right now if not for your intervention in Project Insight.”

It did sound very sincere, and Steve already felt relieved of the worries he had had since being taken here. At least partly. “It was my duty to do what I can, sir,” he replied. “In both instances.”

Ellis gave a small nod. “You always have, and I hope you’re aware of my sincerest gratitude. The revelation of Hydra’s infiltrations has come as a big shock, and, now more than ever, it’s a relief to know there are still people to trust beyond doubt.”

So he was testing the waters then. Steve couldn’t blame him. In a way, it was relieving to know he was still being regarded as an asset and an ally. On the other hand, however, it also meant that loyalty and commitment was expected from him, and that, as a result, meant he wasn’t a free agent after all.

“I will always do what’s best for my country. Like all the men and women who are doing the very same on a daily basis. As for Hydra… Well, you will understand that after their crusade against me the matter has become somewhat personal. So I’m glad for every Hydra operative I can put behind bars.”

“Of course, I absolutely do. I hope you’ll forgive me for asking, but I heard you were abroad recently. Is there any additional intel about still active Hydra bases?” the president asked then, and there was what looked like serious concern in his expression. “Because I meant what I said. I hope you don’t mind that I consider you a friend to our people, and as such, if there’s ever anything you needed…”

He sounded honest, but Steve knew Ellis  was a politician after all, trained to keep any ulterior agendas hidden and sell them as the best intentions. “No active ones that I could find,” Steve replied truthfully, but his thoughts were still focused on the president’s offer, and for a moment he wondered, even considered holding him to it.

“So we’ll have to keep looking,” Ellis nodded slowly. “After Agent Romanoff made all those files public, wherever we went, they were already gone before we arrived. The public and the press are still very concerned, but I’m sure that hasn’t escaped you,” Ellis said with a small, wry smile. “Same as the man who fought you and Agent Romanoff in DC. There’s so much speculation, but there seems to be no sign of him at all.”

Steve had to keep himself from taking a deep breath. The statement could have been nothing but an expression of legitimate concerns. Or an insinuation that Ellis knew something. And that he knew Steve knew.

“You know that the press hardly ever do anything but speculate,” he replied, hoping the evasion wasn’t too obvious.

“But they’re not always wrong,” Ellis said quietly, gaze holding Steve’s for a few long moments. Before Steve managed to come up with a reply, the president said, “Gentlemen, would you please leave us?”

It was quiet for a moment, and Steve could see the two secret service agents exchange a brief glance. “Sir?” one of them said, but Ellis only replied with a tone bordering on exasperated fondness, “I’m very sure Captain America isn’t going to murder the President of the United States. You’re all doing very good jobs, but I’d like to have a word with Captain Rogers in private.”

Ellis knew something. All that tip-toeing around the subject, honest and genuine as his words made it seem, had only been leading up to the great reveal of whatever knowledge he had acquired. Sending the other men out of the room might have been a sign of trust and proof of his own trustworthiness; or it could all be careful strategizing, and Steve was waiting for that gut-feeling that would tell him which.

The door was closed from the outside, and he waited for the president to speak first.

"You're right," Ellis eventually looked back at him, "I didn't think too much of the press speculation. But there was something that has been brought to my attention that made me wonder. And I hope you only take this as genuine curiosity and concern, and nothing else, when I ask: Have you been in contact with that man?"

There was no telltale sign of dishonesty, nothing that betrayed manipulative intentions; Ellis’ body language and features were open, and Steve decided to take a leap of faith. “Yes.”

The surprise on Ellis’ face did not look like it had been prompted by the revelation, so much as by having it confirmed. “So were they right?” he asked after a brief pause. “Was he a member of SHIELD and only fought you because they declared you a fugitive?”

There were multiple ways this conversation could proceed, and while the possibility that Ellis really only wanted to have an open conversation about it and would not threaten Steve - or Bucky - he still had to tread carefully. And in order to do so, confront the issue head-on. “If there’s one thing I’ve learned during recent events it’s that these are nothing but semantics. SHIELD, Hydra, even your very own councils and committees, it doesn’t matter what name is on the badge someone’s wearing. People have been used and misled. You and I both know that, sir,” he said, holding the president’s gaze the entire time. “I still don’t know how many of the missions I’ve completed in the past two years have served Hydra’s interests, yet I’m not considered an enemy of the state. At least I hope so.” His tone was even, but Steve knew the challenge in his last words had not gone unnoticed.

“Of course not,” Ellis shook his head in something like bewilderment. “You have more than proved that you’re everything but. You’re right though. There have been enough good people mislead to work for Hydra when they thought they were doing the right thing.”

Steve nodded, and he was satisfied with the exchange going in the direction he had hoped for. “So if you’re asking me whether he was a member of SHIELD or Hydra, it’s all the same,” he repeated his earlier point. “The only thing that matters is that he believed what he had been told, same as I did. So I’d like to ask of you to apply the same rules and the same level of understanding to him as you do to me and everyone else who’s been little more than a puppet on the strings of Hydra.”

There was a small frown flickering over the president’s face now, as if realising there was more behind Steve’s words. “What are you saying, Captain Rogers?”

“I’m saying that I do want to tell you what I know, but I need your word that you will remain open, and that you trust my judgement,” he said, completely straight-forward. He could not deny that his heartbeat had picked up somewhat with a small sense of remaining doubt.

There was still that hint of concern, or wariness on Ellis’ face, Steve wasn’t entirely sure which. But nevertheless there was barely a pause before the president nodded.

“Go ahead. You have my word.”

Steve took a deep breath and then began talking.

 

***

 

Since he had arrived, Bucky had spent every minute pacing in the shell construction of what might become an office building, wondering what kind of trouble Steve thought he was getting him out of sending him here. Coming had been easy enough. He had blended  in with the crowd on his way, careful to keep his arm hidden. Bucky didn’t exactly know this part of town, and he’d had to look up the address on Steve’s laptop before he had left the apartment.

The construction site was empty, but the how and why didn’t really matter to him.

What mattered was that Bucky had no idea what exactly Steve was doing, and where he was. And while he was used to doing as he’d been told, while it had been so goddamn easy before, now he was wondering how long he could stay here and keep pacing before he might need to do something.

Bucky was just contemplating if he could actually call the red-haired woman, Natasha, scrolling slowly through Steve’s contacts, when the soft sounds of approaching steps from the level beneath his reached his ears. Bucky silently slid behind a plastered steel beam and listened.

“It’s me,” he heard Steve’s voice call, not too loudly but still echoing from the bare walls. “You here?”

Bucky slowly breathed out and revealed himself, seeing Steve standing a couple of yards away. He looked in one piece and unharmed, which alleviated the most pressing of Bucky’s concern right off the batch.

Steve’s steps sped up somewhat as the crossed the distance between them, and there was a smile on his lips that Bucky recognised as being meant calming. “I’m okay,” he said even before Bucky could have asked. “Are you?”

He gave a nod in reply, despite the words letting his gaze flicker quickly over the other man, still not being able to relax entirely.

“Where were you?”

Steve took a deep breath, lips open a moment before he closed them again and gave Bucky a tiny smile that looked almost apologetic. “Oval Office. The president wanted to see me. About last night, mostly.”

That stunned Bucky for a moment. He’d gone through all kind of possible explanations for Steve’s sudden departure, but a meeting with the President of the United States hadn’t been one of them.

But he knew there was more to the story, more of an explanation that Steve could give him, and so he merely waited.

"There's, um... Something else." Now, Steve's gaze definitely turned somewhat guilty, brow furrowing and gaze not meeting him fully. He seemed to bite the inside of his lower lip before he took another deep breath through his nose. “Please don’t let that alarm you, it’s all fine, but… He knew things. About you. Just some minor details, and he had more questions than any real information, but… I told him.”

After a few moments of silence, Bucky understood that nothing else was coming from Steve.

“What then?” he asked slowly, trying to figure out what to think, what to make of the information at all.

Steve hesitated for a moment. His friendly, open gaze was definitely meant to ease Bucky’s worries but not fully genuine. “Believe me, I would have discussed this with you first, but… I had to make a decision, and it was either being honest or raising the president’s suspicions. But like I said, there’s no reason to worry. Rather the opposite really. He gave me his word he wouldn’t go after you or us and that you’d no longer be listed as a threat.”

That was… good. That meant one faction less on his heels. Right?

Bucky didn’t understand why it was so hard to make up his mind about how he felt about this.

“But he doesn’t know.”

Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He doesn’t know what I’ve done. Everything I’ve done.”

Bucky himself wasn’t even sure if it was a statement or a question.

The look of realisation on Steve’s features quickly clouded over with sympathy. He’d seen that look so often, Steve’s eyes shining with a pain that he seemed to feel in Bucky’s stead, but, at the same time, with so much trust and forgiveness that made it almost possible to think none of this had ever been Bucky’s fault.

“He’s the president. He knows what Hydra have done and orchestrated in the past few decades. And he knows… Bucky, I told him almost everything. He knows and understands that you’ve been used by them same as he has fallen for their schemes before, too. If we hadn’t saved that family last night he’d have accepted Richmond’s successor and invited a Hydra operative into his inner circle. So we’re all more or less guilty in doing Hydra’s bidding. Things aren’t exactly black and white here,” he ended, tone gentle as he laid his hand on Bucky’s upper arm in an encouraging gesture.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he could believe that. If he could trust that the president wouldn’t change his mind if he ever heard of the exact extent of the missions the Winter Soldier had carried out. Of all the people he’d killed, indiscriminately. Because even though Bucky couldn’t really remember many details or faces he knew, because of the violent flashes he still got, that it had been a lot.

But Steve trusted the president. That was probably the best he could get.

“So now what?” he asked softly, keeping all his thoughts tightly under wraps. “The witch hunt’s off? Just like that?”

There was a hint of that apologetic smile again, and Steve shrugged faintly. “There was one condition. He said he wanted to meet you in person. I told him I had to ask you first. So what do you say?”

Bucky wanted to laugh. It was an almost irrepressible urge, but he was well aware that it would make him sound a bit insane, so he did his best to swallow it down, succeeding insofar as that what came out wasn't much more than a small chortle.

What was he really supposed to say?

In the end Bucky shrugged. "Well. Yeah."

“Okay.” Steve nodded, and he did seem relieved. It only occurred to Bucky then that it probably wasn’t about his answer alone, but also about the fact that he wasn’t angry at Steve for having spoken to the president about him. “I do think this is really good news, you know. Means you’ll be able to leave the house with one less worry on your back.”

That definitely was a step forward from the current situation, no doubt. Bucky knew that he couldn't stay locked up in Steve's apartment forever, no matter how safe he felt there.

He still thought it was somehow hilarious. After everything he had done, he was now supposed to see the president. He could only hope for Steve's sake that those people wouldn't find out more about him until then.

"Okay."

Another smile followed, and Steve reached into his pocket, taking out a small folded sheet of paper. “If you give me my phone back I can call him right now. I didn’t want to tell him to come here in case you didn’t agree.”

Bucky blinked. "He wants to come _here_?"

“No, he had a different suggestion,” Steve said as he took the phone from Bucky, his eyes narrowing for the briefest of moments, and it did seem like he was still considering all eventualities despite his optimistic words. “Meridian Hill Park.”  

Bucky watched Steve for a moment, suddenly feeling bad because here he’d been, on the verge of entirely inappropriate laughter, while Steve was doing all this for him, worried on top of it all, and trying to eliminate all conceivable dangers for him. And he couldn’t even voice an opinion to the president’s suggestion. So he gave a tentative shrug.

“Okay?”

It seemed to be enough for Steve. He nodded at Bucky and then, entering the number he had written down, was on the phone a few seconds later.

 

***

 

From the temporary hideout it took them roughly fifteen minutes on foot to get back to Steve’s apartment to get his motorcycle, and another ten to reach the agreed location. It was probably no surprise that the entrance of the park was closed off with caution tape and two plain-clothed agents standing by it.

“Of course he doesn’t go anywhere without security,” Steve answered the question that hadn’t  been asked as they looked over the street, both still perched on the motorcycle. Nevertheless, he seemed a bit more tense now, his gaze quickly taking in the surrounding area and travelling up to the roofs of the buildings around. Bucky was still looking over to the secret service agents, but for some reason, he was entirely calm, so much so that it was easy to raise his hand to Steve’s shoulder, there by the juncture to his neck, and give it a calming squeeze.

Steve took the key out of the ignition and, together with Bucky, got off the bike, leaving it at the opposite side of street from the park entrance.

The agents had recognised them already, and when no passers-by could notice, they opened the caution tape to let Steve and Bucky in. They quickly searched them for weapons and continued pretending to be busy with a clipboard and walkie talkie as soon as Steve and Bucky had entered the park.  

“The wall’s pretty low. If we need to make a run for it it shouldn’t be too hard,” Steve said, smiling as if he had been merely joking.

Bucky returned it weakly. “If we make a run for it, don’t you think there’ll be snipers all over those buildings?” he returned quietly, inconspicuously nodding at the high apartment buildings surrounding the park.

“If there were any, then why are we meeting him under those trees where they couldn’t see us?” Steve replied and lifted his hand in direction of two other men, this time clad in their tell-tale black suits, whose bodies were currently shielding a third figure. The quick response still hadn’t quite chased off the look of worry clouding Steve’s eyes, so Bucky didn’t voice his thoughts. There’s always an opening. Always.

He also felt the urge to reach for Steve’s hand to give it an encouraging squeeze, but he pushed that down as well.

“Steve?” Bucky said instead, softly, just when they were still barely out of earshot. “Thank you. For doing this.”

“Uh, I…” Steve did not seem to know how to respond to that; he shrugged vaguely and slowed down his steps for a moment. “I don’t think I had much of a choice. It was either risking that they’d put surveillance on me and find out about you anyway or taking the bull by the horns.”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth twitched softly. Yes, that had always been Steve. He knew that, somehow, deep down inside.

There was no time for a reply though, and so he redirected his gaze to the men they were approaching.

The president gave his bodyguards a curt nod, and they stepped aside, allowing him to move toward Bucky and Steve.

“Sergeant Barnes, I’m glad you decided to come,” the president said, right hand extended for Bucky to grasp. He hesitated for a moment, surprised by the friendly greeting that was just not what he had thought this would be. But when his gaze flickered up to the other man’s face again, he reached out slowly and shook the offered hand.

“Didn’t think it would’ve been polite not to,” he found himself saying.

The president gave a soft laugh at that. “I appreciate your trust. Yours as well, Captain Rogers. You’ll find that I don’t intend to betray it. At least not if you give me no reason to, and as long as my impression confirms what Captain Rogers has explained to me.”

Bucky just nodded, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. He didn’t know what the other man wanted or expected from this meeting, if he was supposed to tell him something, or do something, or act in a certain manner.

“I do hope you understand this, but I had to see for myself. There’s one thing, however, that already speaks for you. Aside from Captain Rogers placing his trust in you. I believe you made quite an impression on a little boy last night?”

That took Bucky completely by surprise, and his gaze flickered to Steve for a moment before it went back to Ellis. “I’m… what?”

Another soft smile ghosted over Ellis’ features. “Aiden Richmond accidentally let slip to one of my men that Captain America and his _friends_ had saved him. It was that, among other details, which prompted my earlier questions,” he explained, looking at Steve for a moment. “After our conversation, I took the liberty to call the family. I hope you forgive me a little bit of scheming in this, but I could coax the boy into telling me a bit more.”

“Oh.”

Suddenly there was nervousness squirming in his insides. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to ask what the boy had said.

But Ellis already took the question from him. “Don’t worry. He spoke very highly of you. So, I have to extend my gratitude in last night’s efforts to you as well, Sergeant Barnes. According to little Aiden you were even more…” his brow and lip twisted in a benignly amused expression, “ _badass_ than Captain Rogers.”

Steve let out a soft, incredulous laugh at that, but Bucky felt completely lost for a moment. He really didn’t think that Ellis had any hidden intentions right now, but what did he really know about how the minds of normal human beings worked? He didn’t know how that man could just be so… _relaxed_ around him, despite everything he didn’t know, but even with the things he did know. He couldn’t understand how he could make jokes like this, and trust him in any way, because Steve didn’t count, really, Steve would always trust him because of who he had once been. He didn’t know how that boy could have said what he had said, because back then Bucky had really had no clue what he’d been doing around those people. He didn’t understand how it should be so easy, or what was going to happen now.

It was almost a throwback to those first days in Steve’s apartment, and it had come too suddenly for Bucky to really know what to do with.

“That said, please allow me to be perfectly honest with you,” Ellis started then, his expression turning more serious and betraying the fact that all the benign smalltalk had been at least partially a diplomatic strategy. “A little boy’s and your best friend’s assessment aren't enough to eradicate all the remaining concerns I _must_ have in my position. Before I grant you what Captain Rogers asked me to do, I have a few more conditions."

Steve must have tensed or opened his mouth to say something because the president raised his hand briefly, a firm glance in Steve's direction, without giving either him nor Bucky a chance to speak. "You're not to leave the country or join any further missions without my prior consent. Is that understood?”

Bucky waited for there to be something else, something more, but it seemed like Ellis wanted a confirmation on that right now. So he nodded, trying not to look confused. “Understood, sir.”

Right now there was barely anything he wanted more than to retreat into the safety and familiarity of the apartment, anyway.

“You’re… not gonna throw me in court?”

Bucky hadn’t really meant to say it, but it had somehow come out nevertheless.

Ellis’ brows rose for the fraction of a second, and he seemed to take a moment to consider his response. “I don’t think that would be wise. At this stage, the details revealed in such a court case could do more damage than good. Sergeant Barnes, as grateful as I am for your assistance, and as much as I owe Captain Rogers here more than one favour - after all, without him, I’d not be standing here in front of you - what I’m doing isn’t purely altruistic. You must understand that the good of this nation is always my top priority. Right now, I think you could be an asset to us, and I hope I can count on your cooperation should we require it.”

Bucky wasn’t sure what the president meant exactly, what could do more damage than good, but he wasn’t going to ask. The public, the press, the way people thought these days, even the way the juridical system worked, were still rather foreign to him, so he had no idea what kind of consequences there’d be for him.

But whoever - or rather whatever - he’d been during his time with Hydra, the one thing he knew was that he didn’t want to be that anymore. So he nodded again.

“You have my word.”

For however much that still counted.

The seriousness didn’t vanish from Ellis’ gaze for a good while; it was as if he was studying Bucky very closely, considering. Then, a smile formed on his lips, and for all Bucky knew it was completely sincere. The president placed his right hand on Bucky’s upper arm - the metal one - and gave it a brief pat. “It _is_ good to have you back, sergeant. Not only because you’re one less person on Hydra’s payroll.”

It was hard to breathe for a moment, his body feeling stiff and coiled tight. Maybe because the man had reached out and touched him, just like that, without warning or worry. Maybe because he acted like the Bucky Barnes of old really had been a person people would want to have around. It made him unable to do anything but nod again.

Steve must have noticed Bucky’s discomfort because he stepped closer, still half behind him, and there was the ghost of a touch at the small of his back. “Thank you, Mr President,” he said, now right next to Bucky, and Ellis gave him a nod, before he continued to both of them.

“There’s one last thing I’d ask of you. It would do no good at this stage if the public got too much wind of everything we’ve just discussed. Until we’ve established a more publically presentably rapport, at least.”

That, at least, was something Bucky was good and most comfortable at. Staying off the radar. It would hopefully keep Hydra off his back, and that was the biggest thing he needed to worry about now that he knew that at least the US agencies weren’t after him anymore.

Steve’s touch on his lower back, however small, helped too.

“No problem for me.”

“Good,” the president said and gave them both a nod. “Gentlemen, it’s been a pleasure.” He extended his hand to Bucky first, and then Steve who thanked him as well.

The moment he could let go, Bucky let out a soft breath. When he briefly let his gaze wander to Steve, it was impossible to miss the expression of utmost relief on his features, but he was vaguely sure that the sources for their shared sentiment were different.

“I hope we’ll meet again soon. Have a good day,” Ellis finally said as means to take his leave, being led off the premises by his Secret Service agents in the opposite direction of where Steve and Bucky had come from.

Bucky took a moment to remind himself that it was alright, that everything was okay, and he could just breathe normally again. As calm as he had been when this whole meeting had started, he was rather sure now that the feeling had come from a place of rather morbid acceptance, but he had underestimated, even after last night’s mission, how people who weren’t Steve could still throw him.

Bucky clenched his jaw and then forced himself to relax, to keep his voice low and even.

“Can we go home?”

The sympathetic concern was hardly ever fully gone from Steve’s eyes, but when Bucky looked at him this time, the joyful relief on his features had become so radiant that some of the tension unfurled in Bucky’s insides by just looking at him.

“Yes, let’s go,” Steve said, and for a second before they both headed in direction of his bike, it had looked almost like Steve had wanted to reach for Bucky’s hand.

All Bucky could think of in that moment was that he wished he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Random tidbit: Meridian Hill Park has a statue of president James Buchanan. Whether Ellis picked this location on purpose, or we did just as a sort of 'Easter Egg', or whether it was pure coincidence because we only found out _after_ we had picked the location... well, that'll remain our secret ;-)  
>  Also, thank you for commenting on the previous chapters. We do hope you're enjoying the fic. In the meantime, while you wait for the next chapter, you could go and read our little AU fic "Sign Dirty To Me".


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky thinks Steve's an idiot but is kind of okay with that.

When they got home, Steve was feeling giddy with relief and joy. It made his stomach tingle and his heart beat faster with elation. He had only fully noticed just how nervous and anxious he had been once it was clear they were facing no dangers. There had been a moment in which he had started to doubt his decision to trust the president with revealing Bucky’s identity to him. So much could have gone wrong, and while he initially had had a mostly good feeling about it, by the time they had reached the park, Steve hadn’t been sure of anything  anymore. Unlike Bucky, who had somehow managed to be the calming, supportive one at first. As the meeting had progressed, however, Steve had felt more and more reassured to have made the right decision, but Bucky, oddly, had become more tense with every passing minute.

None of that mattered now. Because on the ride back Steve had felt Bucky relax behind him, slowly but steadily; his grip around his waist becoming warmer, and the rigidness in his upper body receding. When Steve finally closed the apartment door behind them, he neither could nor wanted to suppress the breathless laugh that came over his lips. His chest felt wide, filled with the negative space of the weight that had previously rested on his shoulders. Bucky was free, a legal member of society with the president’s approval. It didn’t solve every issue, but it was a huge first step. And more so, Bucky could relearn that there were people that were decent, that would put their trust in him, believe him and see him as a human being. The joy and the relief were joined by an overwhelming sense of pride, and Steve could not remember when he’d last felt anything like it.

Next to him Bucky let out a long, soft breath, and then glanced at him with a shaky smile. “See how far all your heroism and saving the president’s life will get you…”

Steve felt a soft chuckle bubble from his chest and a sudden, staggering urge to touch Bucky, to hug him, to do _some_ thing, anything but nothing. It was that impulse he followed when he put one hand on the back of Bucky’s neck and the other on his upper arm.

Later, Steve would wonder how much time between them entering the door and this had really passed; he’d think it had been no more than three or four seconds. In that moment, however, time seemed to stand nearly still. His gaze went to search Bucky’s, unable to lock with it as it had travelled lower, to Steve’s lips. Steve’s heart started beating faster, and within those short seconds everything fell into place. There was just one thing on his mind, just the one that, in that moment, seemed to matter. Seemed right. He let his instincts take over and followed that impulse to close the last remaining distance between them and kiss Bucky.

A soft sound came over Bucky’s lips at first and was swallowed down by Steve’s; a soft gasp maybe, a sound that could be indignation just as well as surprise, or disbelief. He froze only for the briefest of seconds, and then there were hands on Steve’s jacket, gripping tightly. Bucky kissed him back as hard and nearly as desperate as neither of their two… three kisses had been before.

Steve could hardly breathe. His heart seemed to stumble inside his chest, air not finding its way in or out for a moment. He wanted to laugh - if that hadn’t meant having to break the kiss. He wanted to wrap his arms around Bucky as tightly as possible, push him against the wall by the door. He wanted to make it slow and sweet, to look into Bucky’s eyes. And he wanted all of it at once, but his hands didn’t seem to know what part to reach for, his feet not whether to move closer, and his lips not how they wanted to kiss Bucky.

He thought, for the briefest of moments, that it must be the most ridiculous kiss two people had ever shared, but when he felt Bucky’s lips slide against his, felt the short stubble on Bucky’s cheek underneath his fingertips, felt the soft vibration of a hum that could have been Bucky’s or his own, he simply could not care less about that. It was, after all, the first _proper_ kiss he’d ever experienced, not a barely-there brush of lips lasting mere seconds, not one catching him completely by surprise, not one without much meaning as his very first. It was the complete opposite of all three, and Steve thought he never, _never_ wanted it to end.

It came as a surprise to suddenly feel his back hit either wall or door - he wasn’t even sure - Bucky obviously having been more decisive than Steve in what he wanted. And it was definitely the kind of kiss that clashed and burned, hands that gripped tightly whatever they could find, fabric, arms, shoulders, hair, an urgency that was fuelled by days, weeks, decades maybe, just maybe, of unfulfilled want and restraint and despair.

Eventually Steve had to break the kiss, even if he didn’t want to, to take a few deeper breaths than he could through his nose. And it wasn’t such a bad thing after all because, when his hands gently pushed against Bucky - one at his shoulder, the other brushing against the skin below his jaw - he could finally look at him, see how red his lips were, how his grey-blue eyes were shining and half-lidded.

“You have no idea,” Steve started, feeling the words stumble hoarsely over his lips. Before he could continue, the faintest of chuckles came over them at how trite those words were, but he needed to say them anyway. “You’ve no idea how much I’ve wanted this, Buck.”

Steve wasn’t completely sure what exactly it was that he saw in Bucky’s face, but it was obvious that it was full of emotion as his fingers tightened in Steve’s collar and he gently pushed him back against the wall again.

“You’re such an idiot,” was what he said, voice breaking halfway through.

“Why am I an idiot?” Steve asked, a small, incredulous chuckle coming over his lips.

“I told you not to,” was Bucky’s reply, and his voice was wavering between desperate exasperation, helpless irritation and something much warmer and softer, and he couldn’t seem to step away this time or even make his hands let go of Steve or look away from his face. “You shouldn’t do this, with me. You shouldn’t _want_ this. And _yes_ ,” he interrupted Steve just when he opened his mouth, “I know what you’re going to say. _You’re still an idiot._ ”

“Then let me say it anyway,” Steve started, very determined, and even more so not to let any of Bucky’s doubts spoil the happiness he was currently experiencing. “I do want this, and I don’t see any reason why I shouldn’t. You’ve always been my best friend, the most important person in my life. So if wanting this, wanting to be with you like this makes me an idiot, fine. I’ll be the biggest one you’ve ever known.”

Bucky just stared at him for a second, his eyes, his whole face filled with more… just _more_ , than Steve had seen on him ever since having found him again. And then, eventually, he closed his eyes and breathed out, everything in his posture filled with defeat as his head sank forward against Steve’s shoulder, fingers still tangled in his shirt.

“You’re driving me crazy.”

“The good kind, I hope,” Steve said, the urgent impatience of their earlier touches now almost forgotten. He gently laid his arms around Bucky’s back , palms drawing soothing circles, and it was more automatic than deliberate when he brushed a kiss to the top of Bucky’s head. “Alright?”

Instead of answering, Bucky breathed deeply and slowly against him, and it felt to Steve like he stepped just a little closer, burying deeper against him.

It was enough; it was definitely not a bad sign, and Steve gave Bucky the time he needed to wrap his mind around this, however long he needed. He just kept holding him, and it occurred to him that, in all the years he had known Bucky, they’d never held each other like this, long and gently and so closely for no other reason than needing and enjoying that contact.

Maybe Bucky had needed this, exactly this, more than anything, because he simply didn’t want to let go. He just stood there for long minutes in Steve’s embrace, silence settling around them, his forehead pressed against Steve’s shoulder.

Eventually he spoke again, even though he barely moved, and the words were falling quietly against Steve’s collar.

“Since when?”

Steve brought his fingers under Bucky’s chin, gently urging him to look back into his eyes. “Want to sit down on the couch for that?”

Bucky didn’t look much like he cared, though he hesitated before he stepped back to break their contact, but followed Steve’s proposition nevertheless.

When they both sat down, Steve pulled Bucky to his side again, one arm around his back and the other around his middle. And that, in itself, felt so amazing that Steve had to stop himself from wanting to kiss Bucky again.

“I thought about this a lot since… I actually don’t know since when. It’s complicated,” he admitted. “Definitely since you kissed me, here on the couch, but that wasn’t the first time. Do you… did you remember that? The other time, before?”

Bucky was quiet for a long moment, all the tension seeming to have bled out of him. His head was on Steve’s shoulder, and his right arm wrapped lightly around Steve’s waist.

“Yes,” he said eventually, deliberately. “When I remembered I thought, for a moment… we…”

Steve nodded, not needing him to continue. He’d thought something like that already.

“I thought about it a few times after that, you know?” he continued softly. “But those were different times. We were brought up knowing what sort of trouble you could get yourself into being queer. And we were in the middle of the war. Not really the right time and place for romance, least of all something like this.”

It was almost surprising how easy it was to leave everything he had learned of this behind. Sure, in their time, it had been no secret that, specifically in certain parts of Brooklyn, there were all types of people that didn’t conform with what society had painted as the ideal. And they had seemed to be doing fine with that as long as they didn’t get in trouble with the law. But knowing that something existed and thinking it was right and acceptable had been vastly different things then - probably still were today, in many regards.

Nevertheless, Steve didn’t feel like any of that had any impact on him today. There was nobody alive that had known him then and who would have thought differently of him being a _nancy_ , or whatever they would have called him. The people that mattered today had different beliefs and attitudes, and it was so, so surprisingly easy to leave everything else behind - in a different world that didn’t belong into his life today.

There was the softest of huff against his shoulder. “And today’s different?”

Steve shrugged at that. “Kinda. We didn’t have a comfortable couch in the war or running water.”

He could just _see_ Bucky roll his eyes at him, even though he didn’t move.

“Funny.”

Steve let out a soft, breathy laugh.

“But if you want to know about the earliest I can remember that I thought about you in that way,” he continued then, wanting to get this out, “it was way before that. I just never really allowed it, you know? You always had your sweethearts, and I… I was skinny and plain, not much to look at.”

There was a murmur against his shoulder that sounded a lot like, “As if.” Then Bucky shifted a little, but he didn’t draw his head back nor did he let go of Steve before he asked haltingly, “What… what about Peggy?”

“Well…” Although understanding perfectly where Bucky was going with this question, Steve found it difficult to answer. Before he had been injected with Erskine’s serum, a part of him had always thought he’d end up alone, that he’d never find someone who’d put up with him and all his physical deficiencies and lack of attractiveness. He had been bitter about it for most of his adolescent and early adult life. Then that had changed, and even though there had hardly been the time or right occasion to let much develop, he had noticed that women reacted to him very differently. More than little, sickly Steve Rogers from Brooklyn would have ever imagined in his wildest dreams.

Peggy however, she’d been something else. Not unlike Bucky, she had looked at him, even before the serum, as if she saw him as a real person, though he had often wondered whether she would have shown any interest beyond friendship in him, had he not become who he was today, physically.

He had liked her, really, really liked her, and his heart twisted slightly in his chest when he thought of the old woman in a nursing home who, on bad days, couldn't even remember her husband and her children. Unlike Bucky, she would not get a chance to recover from that.

"I can't tell you what would've happened if things had gone differently those seventy years ago. Maybe… probably we would have ended up together."

It was quiet for a while then, but it was hard to say what Bucky was thinking about, especially since Steve still couldn’t see his face.

“I’m sorry,” he said eventually, quietly.

“Don’t be,” Steve said. “She lived a very fulfilling life, and… I don’t know, but maybe things happen for a reason. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to be with me because…” He almost laughed at the thought, knowing how cheesy it sounded, but it didn’t make it feel any less true. “Because I was supposed to be with someone else.” He smiled softly as he brought Bucky’s face up again to look into his eyes.

There was a raw expression etched into his face, and even Steve’s smile couldn’t seem to soften it. Bucky’s gaze moved over Steve’s face for a long moment, his eyes, his lips, and then there was a small frown on his own. But Steve didn’t have the time to worry or ask about it, before Bucky tilted his head up and kissed him again, tentative this time, almost shy.

It felt just as wonderful as that first hasty, needy kiss, maybe even more so. Steve let his lips rest against Bucky’s, feeling their softness and warmth before his own opened ever so slightly and the tip of his tongue brushed gently, slowly against Bucky’s bottom lip.

He had often imagined what it would feel like to kiss someone like that, had weighed his expectations against the few short-lived kisses he’d experienced and let his thoughts wander, but all his dreams and fantasies could not compare to this. To how his heartbeat sped up again with what he could only describe as bliss, tingling sweet and warm through his entire body.

The kiss wore off in the end, though it was a long and slow process, each of them going back for more whenever they'd been about to let it end. Eventually, though, Bucky pulled his head back enough to be able to look at Steve, slowly licking his lips.

Steve let his fingertips caress Bucky’s cheek, the movement more natural, unconscious even, than he would have thought, and he did hope he’d get more of those kisses for as long as the evening lasted. He was just about to lean in for another kiss - just a brief one, he’d told himself - when a low rumbling in his stomach made him release a somewhat sheepish chuckle.

The corners of Bucky's mouth twitched softly.

"Yeah. Could use some food too."

“I didn’t go shopping,” Steve said with a frown that wasn’t completely serious. “We could order something. Pizza? Chinese? Indian?”

"Pizza," Bucky replied immediately, as if on instinct, or as if the thought really appealed to him, and Steve laughed.

He felt really, truly happy right now, more than he could have wished for. “Pizza it is,” he said and took his phone out of his jeans pocket.

 

***

 

That night Bucky had a nightmare.

And that didn’t make sense, because, no matter what his head wanted to tell him, he was entirely convinced that every single kiss he'd shared with Steve that day had been the best thing that had ever happened to him. And there had been a lot of them. While they had waited for the pizza to be delivered, while they had changed the bed sheets, while they had watched another movie. Before they had gone to bed.

Steve had hesitated then, and Bucky knew exactly what he had been thinking. But since Bucky hadn't said anything, Steve hadn't either, and so they had separated to sleep on the couch and in bed just as all the nights before.

It was with a warm feeling that Bucky had dozed off, but that turned into cold fear in his sleep.

He dreamed of Steve, but saw him turning his back on him, Peggy on his arm, smiling. He dreamed of the night sky between trees and bushes, and of the cold, bone deep and icy. Of being unable to move, struggling fruitlessly, of feeling like he was drowning. Of darkness and four walls too close, way too close, like being buried deep and way underground. Of a man looking down at him, his smile terrifying.

Bucky woke up with a violent gasp and the urge to run, to get away, just away, far away. He was already on his feet when his mind registered where he was, and that there was no need to run, because he was safe here. Steve was sleeping only one room away. This was home.

But despite that he spent the rest of the night crouched in one corner of the living room where he could see everything.

The morning light chased most of the lingering sense of unease away, and a very early shower made him feel at least mostly normal. Enough to greet Steve with a smile, enough to be able to appreciate his ruffled hair and adoring, sleep-warmed expression. He even managed to send him off on his run, saying that this - whatever this was - didn't mean he wanted them to just sit on top of each other even more now.

The closing door filled him with relief, even though a part of him just wanted to hide in Steve's embrace again. He was able to do that later, Steve’s arm around him on the couch, a few tentative kisses here and there, and somehow he made it through the day. But the dream lingered, gnawed on him from the back of his mind, like someone else standing in the corner of the room whenever he glanced into a mirror.

Bucky didn't sleep that night, willing the hours away with Steve's iPod and whatever music from the their time he could find. _You are my sunshine. In the mood. The very thought of you. How deep is the ocean. Somewhere over the rainbow._

When the sun came up again, Bucky decided he was being ridiculous, and that he couldn't be scared of something that wasn't there. He distracted himself by kissing a freshly showered Steve for half an hour and then, finally, felt better again. Just very, very tired.

He must have dozed off eventually, but Bucky had no idea how long he had been out. It was the loud crack of thunder that woke him, making him twitch awake and blink, and he looked around somewhat disorientedly for a moment.

Dark clouds had piled up outside and rain was coming down hard, making the living room dark enough that Steve had put on the small lamp by the armchair. Bucky spotted him coming over from the open kitchen, and he let himself sink back onto his couch with a sigh, rubbing one hand down his face.

“Ah, about time,” Steve said with a smirk as he sat down on the right side of the three-seater, gently pushing Bucky’s feet aside before he took the remote control in hand. “News are about to start.”

Bucky only gave an unintelligible sound in return but drew his feet closer to himself so that Steve had more room to sit. He was still too sleep-muddled for anything else, and that in itself was a foreign feeling. Usually he went from asleep to highly alert within moments.

“What time is it?” he wanted to know eventually, voice sounding sleep-rough in his own ears, and only then realised that it had been a stupid question. “Oh, right… news. Forget that.”

“Seven,” Steve replied anyway, smile still on his lips as he turned on the TV. “Sleep all right then?”

He had. There had been no dreams of cold, too small rooms and rejection to keep him awake this time - or none that he could remember, nothing jolting him in his doze until that clap of thunder had come along. “Yeah,” he said, pushing his arm under his head and watching Steve. “What did you do?”

“Laundry,” Steve said, turning the volume of the TV down a little while the news had not yet started. “We should probably go and buy you a few more clothes. I’m okay with sharing my socks and t-shirts with you, but we’re getting a bit short.”

Not surprising, Bucky thought to himself. Now that he had taken his own training up again whenever Steve was out, they were going through shirts even faster.

“Okay,” he replied, leaning his legs against the backrest of the couch.

“Great, then we’re going tomorrow,” Steve said, sliding a bit closer so he didn’t have to sit at the very edge of the couch anymore. “We can get a bit of fresh air, take a walk or something.”

Bucky hummed in agreement, only briefly glancing over to the TV screen when the news started. It had become some kind of ritual for them, to watch this together most evenings. But the TV was only able to hold his attention for mere moments before he turned his head back and watched Steve watching the news.

He watched and listened attentively, his features having lost the light-hearted smile and now looking at the screen in almost sombre concentration as the anchor spoke about crises and catastrophes. When the segment was over and the presenter went on to talk about  national economy, Steve took a slightly deeper breath and looked back at Bucky with a small smile on his lips. His hand was lying on the couch, his little finger almost but not yet touching Bucky’s toes as if he had put it there on purpose.

It amused Bucky a little, but at the same time it caused that strangely warm feeling that he had come to associate with Steve to settle in his insides. It was one of the most pleasant things he could remember. Steve seemed to be following the news with less attentiveness than before. His gaze drifting to Bucky every now and then, only to look away instantly as soon as Bucky met his eyes.

It made the corners of Bucky’s lips twitch affectionately, and gave him even less reason to look away. He found himself wondering if this actually flustered Steve, whose interest in the news was rekindled as the sports came on.

The New York Yankees were mentioned, and Bucky vaguely remembered Steve telling him about them.

“We went to see a few games together,” Steve said, not asking if Bucky remembered or making it seem like he expected him to. “Our team were the Dodgers, though. But they… um, moved to California. They’re the LA Dodgers, now.”

Bucky just raised his eyebrows at that, vaguely confused. “Moved?”

“Yes, but not until they finally won against the Yankees in… I think fifty-six. The World Series still fell to the Yanks in the end, but it must have been a historic moment,” Steve replied, shifting slightly in his seat to turn towards Bucky, one knee on the seat, arm on the backrest.

Bucky just gave a hum in reply and acknowledgement, feeling the tugging on the corners of his mouth become stronger. It was still strange for him, to feel as he did.

“We could get recordings of a few games if you like,” Steve offered, leaning in just a tiny bit more closely so that they were now taking up half of the couch each. And since Bucky hadn’t moved his feet, his toes were now brushing Steve’s thighs.

He didn’t react to his words this time, too focussed on the way Steve was looking at him, trying to remember if he had ever been looked at like that. And if it had always made him feel like this, like something prickling on his skin.

There must have been something in his gaze then, because Steve averted his eyes the very next moment. There was a faint hint of colour in his cheeks and a smile on his lips. Steve looked back at the TV, following the weather report with way more focus than was necessary.

Bucky didn’t think much about what he was going to do, he just pushed himself up into a sitting position and reached over to take the front of Steve’s shirt between his fingers so that he could draw him close enough to kiss him. Steve let out a tiny sigh as he brought a hand up to Bucky’s neck and returned the kiss with gentle curiosity.

Only weeks ago, Bucky would never have thought something like this could be possible. He had been too messed up to even think about kissing someone. But Steve was… he felt familiar, and reassuring, the one thing he could rely on. And to breathe in his scent, have him touch his neck like this, was like something fundamental that had been forgotten and then found again, and felt all the better now. Bucky had no idea what his life was going to be, but he knew that he needed Steve in it. Steve, who was careful not to be too demanding but at the same time - Bucky could feel that with every small movement - desperately yearning for more. His fingers slowly brushed through the hair on the back of Bucky’s neck, and he pushed himself closer against him, just a little, opening his lips a bit more, deepening the kiss. Another sigh was caught by Bucky’s mouth when their tongues curled around each other, and then Bucky tugged on Steve’s shirt again to draw him along as he settled back down on the couch.

He wasn’t quite sure what made him do it. Maybe the level of comfort he had felt there before, just lying and watching Steve, maybe that he actually did want him closer, without the barrier of his drawn up legs between them. He gave Steve just enough time to sort his limbs while their lips stayed latched to each other before pulling him down over him, finally able to stretch his legs.

Another soft sigh came over Steve’s lips, and he broke the kiss slowly. Leaning over Bucky with his weight supported by one hand, he lifted his other to Bucky’s face. His fingertips gently caressed his cheek, and Steve looked down at him with such adoration, blue eyes dark in the warm light, his lips, pink from their kiss, curled into a small smile.

Now Bucky was the one who was squirming under that gaze. His eyes flickered to Steve's lips, easier to look at, and he tugged on the shirt again to draw him back down. He didn't want to be watched, he wanted to be kissed, to remember gentleness and forget the rest. Just feel and not think, feel the way Steve’s hands and lips made his heart pound in his chest. The kiss quickly grew yet more intense, open-mouthed, with little sighs in between. Maybe still a bit too much tongue from Steve who seemed eager but not yet fully having figured out the details. But he responded to each of Bucky’s movements, trying out other things, too, like gently sucking on Bucky’s bottom lip, teeth slightly scraping his skin, as he shifted his weight and pushed himself up and closer some more by what seemed to be mere instinct.

Though Bucky couldn’t remember, it felt like his body had retained some instinct for encounters like this. He just knew what to do, what he wanted, and he could tell Steve really didn't have a lot of experience with this, even if he had no idea how. All this should be entirely foreign to him.

Bucky’s hand slowly untangled from the shirt, and he let it slide down from there, knuckles brushing Steve's stomach, to lightly grasp his hip instead of the shirt. His metal arm was squashed somewhere between his own body and the backrest, but he didn't really want to touch Steve with it, and so he left it where it was.

For a few moments, Steve seemed to meet the touch of Bucky’s hand, breathe deeper through the kiss as he moved his hips forward slowly. Then he suddenly released a little moan, withdrawing from Bucky’s lips and shifting his weight very obviously to avoid direct contact of their lower bodies. He cleared his throat a little awkwardly. “I… um…”

Bucky glanced up at him, his own breathing having become faster while they had kissed. He licked his lips instinctively and let his gaze flicker from Steve's face down his body, vaguely amused.

"Not that I know a whole lot, but I think _that_ is normal."

Steve let out a faint laugh - the kind that made his whole face light up for a short moment despite its obvious bashfulness. “I… guess,” he said but changed his position nevertheless so that he was lying next rather than on top of Bucky. The whole endeavour on the narrow couch took a few moments, and Steve laughed again faintly before he leaned back over, taking Bucky’s face in both hands gently. When their lips connected again it was much softer, just a feather-light touch of Steve’s mouth, tip of tongue touching his, and Bucky just went along with it. If that was what Steve wanted, he wasn't going to complain, and he himself mostly just wanted to have him close anyway. Enjoy this kind of intimacy that was both old and yet very new, battling that feeling that had been eating away at him. That he had nowhere to belong, not even any real right to be in this world. It grew fainter when Steve was kissing him. And so he turned his body towards him and let his fingers splay on the warm stomach over the fabric of his shirt.

Another sigh came over Steve’s lips, but it seemed rather contented. He broke the kiss again, only to place several tender ones on the corner of Bucky’s mouth, his cheek and jawline. Then he nestled up against Bucky’s shoulder, face buried in the crook of his neck, and with one arm he pulled himself closer against Bucky, embracing him tightly, breathing in, almost desperate all of the sudden. “I’ve missed you.”

Bucky didn't know what to say to that. He still didn't really know who that man was that Steve had missed. He knew only fragments of him to be real and true. It was a horrible feeling, not to know if he would ever be able to give him what he was seeking, fearing that one day Steve might discover that this was all wishful thinking.

He breathed out slowly and raised his hand to bury his fingers in the short blond strands, just wanting to hold on to him, something Steve didn’t seem averse to in the slightest. The embrace became gentler, but he was still holding onto Bucky closely, placing a soft kiss to his neck, his face and then his lips again from time to time.

“Hm,” Steve started, lifting his head and looking down at Bucky, his gaze full of affection but also a tiny trace of insecurity. “I just thought you don’t have to sleep on the couch the whole time. My bed’s big enough. I mean, I’m not saying we… You know. Just maybe… this. If you’d like that?”

The offer unsettled Bucky, even though he had expected it. For a moment he could only look at Steve. "I'm... not a quiet sleeper," he finally managed to get out, thoughts of the night before creeping up on him again.

Steve frowned slightly, brow furrowed as he studied Bucky’s face. “You have trouble sleeping?”

He had thought that much would have been obvious, and Bucky must have been looking at him strangely.

“Sorry,” Steve said. “I just thought maybe it’d gotten better. How bad is it?” he asked, sliding onto his side, propped up on one elbow.

Bucky shrugged slightly, his gaze fixed on a point over Steve’s collar where fabric met skin. “Depends. But it’s manageable.”

“Hm.” Steve seemed not very happy with the response, concern clearly written in the furrows on his forehead, and he seemed to be struggling with himself whether he wanted to add or ask something, opening his mouth twice to speak but closing it again. “Bad dreams?” he finally got out, making Bucky’s gaze wander over to him for a moment before he slid his arm across his own chest.

“Yeah.”

Among other things.

Steve just nodded in reply, lying still for a moment. Then he lifted his free hand and let his fingertips drift over Bucky’s forearm. “The offer still stands. And if you wake me up it’s fine.”

Of course Steve would say that. Bucky just didn’t know if he was ready for Steve to see him when…

So he hesitated.

“You don’t have to,” Steve immediately conceded, “but… sometimes we slept in the same bed when we were kids. I had nightmares, too - all kids do, I guess. But, I didn’t have a lot of them when you were there.” He shrugged slightly and gave Bucky a brief smile.

Bucky had no doubt that he was telling the truth, and not some made-up memory to make him feel better. But the thought of _him_ making anyone feel better, maybe even safe…

A small shiver went through him, and his gaze dropped.

“We can try.”

Steve smiled, a close-lipped, tender smile that made his eyes shine with not pity but sympathy and affection. A moment later, he leaned down again, softly placing his lips on Bucky’s. It was a slow, rather languid and comfortable kiss, no urgent hunger for more but rather an affirmation of something that had started between them.

It made it easy for Bucky to surrender to the comfort of it. And even though there was a voice in the back of his mind that remained doubtful and unsure, Bucky felt like he neither could nor wanted to say no to Steve. He had a feeling it had always been like this. So he relented with a small sigh and let his eyes fall shut, giving in to Steve’s contagious hopefulness and positivity and not thinking about anything else.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which reality catches up with Bucky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks for reading and commenting so far and sorry for the rather slow update this time. Generally, we try to post a new chapter every 5 days, and we will keep that rhythm in the future, at least most of the time. As we've said before, except for a few smallish parts and scenes, the story is complete and we're just working on the details together with our beta reader Indigo, who is doing a splendid job! (Thank you, hun!)  
> We do hope you are still enjoying the fic. If there is anything you'd like to know or say feel free to do so anytime :)

Ever since that afternoon, after meeting the president, Steve had been in a state of constant happiness. It wasn’t always that profound euphoria that had made his nerve-ending tingle during those first kisses, and the ones they’d shared before Bucky had agreed to try sleeping in the bedroom with him from now on. A serenity had taken over, not making him forget all the difficulties, but giving him the confidence he needed to face them, calmly and full of hope. It wasn’t something he could remember ever having felt  

He’d be a fool to ignore that there still were some troubles - still would in the future. Bucky was still regaining his memories, struggling with those that haunted him at night, even if he didn’t seem willing to speak about them. It wasn’t unusual for anyone who had seen a warzone, and even less so for someone like Bucky who had been through so much worse. But Steve could see Bucky progress daily, could see him relax more and more when he didn’t have one of his bad days; when he was smiling and laughing or giving Steve a look that betrayed a recovered memory of something small and pleasant.

As far as these things went, it could only get better.

That morning, they had made the best of a somewhat sleep-deprived night and decided to go on a run together, sporting a pair of new shirts from a batch of clothes they had finally ordered online, before the sun had even completely risen. And when it did they had watched it over the Jefferson Memorial. It had been ridiculously beautiful with a crystal clear, soon bright blue sky and the warm sunlight painting the still water of the basin a golden orange. Steve had barely been able to resist the urge to pull Bucky in right there and then and kiss him, even sweaty as they both had been after the long run.

There had been some kisses later, somewhere between showering and making breakfast, and now they were simply enjoying their companionable silence, Steve finishing his half of the newspaper while Bucky was reading something on Steve’s tablet.

A frown had started to form on Bucky's face. “Anything interesting?” Steve asked as he folded the newspaper up again.

"Cuban missile crisis," Bucky replied without glancing away from the screen. "I've never heard about it like this."

“Oh. How did you… what did you hear about it?” Steve asked.

"Not with all this background," Bucky slowly shook his head, still frowning. "I… I know that…" Here he hesitated for a longer moment, something troubled darkening his features. "I… I remember… they were _livid_ when it didn’t happen."

“Oh,” Steve just said a little dumbly, not sure whether he should encourage Bucky to continue  or wait for him to do it on his own.

"They… said that he…" Bucky looked like he was going to say something more, but before he could finish his thought, his expression changed. It closed off rapidly, and he stared straight ahead for a moment, before his hands fumbled with the tablet to quickly turn it off and push it away from him.

It was in small moments like these that Steve’s confidence and hopefulness were tested, but so far he hadn’t let this dampen his spirits. If Bucky wanted to talk about something he was there to listen, and if he didn’t Steve would simply do his best to take Bucky’s minds off whatever troubled him.

“It’s okay,” he said with a smile and reached over to place one hand on top of Bucky’s. “Is there anything else you’d like to do today? Anything you’d like to see, maybe? The weather’s really nice. We could take the bike and drive up the Potomac.”

He could see how Bucky's jaw was working, his gaze still lowered, and for a few moments he couldn't or didn't want to reply.

"I… I don't know," he finally said, gaze fixed on their hands.

Steve let his thumb brush over Bucky’s fingers, gently and slowly, and he simply let him mull that thought over for a while, not needing him to make up his mind now.

“Anything you wanna talk about then?” he tried, his tone non-committal but open, making sure that Bucky knew he could talk about anything, anytime he wanted, but didn’t have to.

Bucky shook his head, but his fingers spread a little to let Steve's slip between his.

It sent a smile to Steve’s lips immediately. As small and innocent as the touch was, and after  they had exchanged so many, sometimes it still felt surreal to him, to be able to hold Bucky’s hand like this. Too good to be true.

He just wanted to suggest something else - maybe browse some more online retailers for clothes - when his phone vibrated in his jeans pocket. Steve let out an involuntary sigh when he realised it meant he had to let go of Bucky’s hand, lest he wanted to awkwardly reach into his right pocket with his left. When he looked at the display to see who was calling, the next sound that left him was a half exasperated, half guilty groan, and he picked up quickly.

“Hi Sam.”

"Okay, look. I know I said you didn't have to call _every day_ anymore, and I totally appreciate that you have a lot to catch up on with your best friend and all, _but_ ," Sam said, and then made a dramatic pause, "I'm starting to feel just a little deserted. You don't have a lot of experience sharing your friendship energies with anyone but Bucky, right?"

For all his guilty conscience, Steve still had to laugh at that. He’d gotten up from the barstool in the kitchen and walked a few steps, now leaning against the counter by the sink. “Maybe you’re just a very clingy friend,” he said, hearing a snort as reply. “Okay, no. You’re right, I’m sorry,” he added, tone still humorous but the apology genuine.

"Well, I spent days and days without a break with you, and then got dropped like a hot potato. I'd like to see your reaction to that."

Steve had long gotten used to Sam's good-natured needling.He knew that his friend wasn't in any way cross with him and just took advantage of every opportunity to wind him up a bit.

"Okay, enough of that. How's it going, man?"

“Uh, good. Really good,” Steve replied, something that must have been a rather dreamy smile spreading on his lips. He quickly cleared his throat. “Took a trip to the White House,” he said then, exchanging a brief look with Bucky to see if he was alright with Steve sharing this, but Bucky had gotten to his feet to roll his shoulders, one hand kneading the juncture between his left shoulder and neck, and looked rather unconcerned about what Steve was telling Sam, who commented his words with a low whistle. "The White House? You've seen the president?"

“Yeah,” Steve replied, and then, suppressing his own smirk, added, “You haven’t?”

"Shut up," Sam just laughed. "I'm just the sidekick, I don't get to meet any presidents."

“Don’t say that. Maybe I’ll take you along to the next top secret meeting,” he said and let out a soft chuckle. Sam was a great friend, and Steve felt a little guilty about having forgotten to call him. Then again, he hardly had thoughts to spare in the past few days.

"Nah, I'll leave the big guns to you. I'm actually more than happy as it is," Sam replied with what must have been a wry smile. "But if things really are as good as you say, think you can make a bit of time for a good old regular meeting over burgers or something like that?"

This time, Steve didn’t quite know how to reply, and his glance automatically went back to Bucky. Sure, he had left the house before, but, somehow, the thought of leaving Bucky here alone while hanging out with a friend didn’t feel right anymore. “Uh, that sounds good, but… Can I get back to you on that?” he asked, but before Sam had any chance to reply, Bucky turned towards Steve, rolling his eyes.

"Jesus, Steve, just say yes."

He let out an involuntary huff of breath, a smile lingering on his lips for a moment longer as he looked back at Bucky and mouthed a ‘thanks’.

“Did you hear that? I’m being kicked out. So… how does tomorrow sound?” he asked, and Sam laughed.

"Awesome. Yes, I heard. Sounds like he might be getting sick of seeing your face all the time?" he teased, and when the corners of Bucky's mouth twitched, Steve suspected he had caught more of that than he would have thought. "Tell Bucky I'll take good care of you."

“Will do,” he replied. “As long as you don’t pick a diner where we nearly get food-poisoning again.”

"You mean where I get food-poisoning, and you get mild indigestion," Sam returned dryly. "Will do my best. I'll pick you up around noon? Have a session at three."

“Sure. Okay,” Steve replied and, after saying their goodbyes, hung up.

“You okay with him coming by to pick me up?” Steve asked as he walked over to Bucky. “While you’re here, I mean. You know, I think you’d like him, actually.”

"Why shouldn't I be okay then?" Bucky had gone to perch on his spot on the wide window sill. "You could tell me, you know. About all the stuff that went down during…” He made a waving motion with his hand. “Project Inside."

Steve just gave Bucky a smile as he sat down across from him on the window sill, their knees softly bumping into each other. He didn’t quite know where to start, certainly not with Fury having nearly been killed by Bucky and how the events had unfolded from there.

“Do you know what that project was, exactly? What it was supposed to… accomplish.” He cringed around the word.

Bucky considered for a moment, a mild frown on his features. “Not… really. That wasn't my…”

“Zola’s algorithm,” Steve continued, reaching for Bucky’s hand again to hold it in his as he spoke, “apparently it calculated what path people were on, how relevant and influential they could be. They masked it as a means to counter terrorism and external threats before they could arise, but what it actually did was to pick out those that were a danger to Hydra’s purposes. The president was on that list, Tony, too. Many scientists and politicians.”

Bucky nodded slowly, and though his expression was mostly even, Steve thought he could see something there, something that reminded him of guilt.

"And I shot you when you tried to stop it," he said quietly, darkly. "Three times."

“Hey,” Steve said softly, one hand going up to the back of Bucky’s neck, pulling him in gently until their foreheads nearly touched. “You thought you had to do it. You didn’t know me, and you thought I was the enemy. And you saved my life in the end, Buck, you have no reason to feel guilty about anything, okay?”

Bucky huffed quietly, but readily leaned into into the gesture. "Plenty of reason, if you ask me. The only thing that kind of might speak for me here is that I didn't shoot you in the head," he said dryly.

“There’s a hell of a lot more that speaks for you,” Steve replied gently as his fingertips brushed a strand of hair out of Bucky’s face and behind his ear. His hand lingered there, feeling the warmth of Bucky’s skin against his thumb. “What speaks for you is that, despite everything they did to prevent it, you still had enough strength to keep fighting. And you did make the right decision in the end. I don’t know if you fully appreciate this, but that’s actually pretty darn amazing. Definitely nothing they ever expected.”

Bucky's gaze rose up to Steve's then, and he didn't say anything, but they were close enough that his eyes filled Steve's vision almost entirely. He breathed in slowly, and Steve wasn't sure if he was about to say something or kiss him, when the doorbell rang.

Steve let out a mildly exasperated sigh, but he leaned in anyway and placed a gentle kiss to Bucky’s forehead before he got up.

When he looked through the spyhole - something he’d become accustomed to since Bucky had moved in - he saw a blonde woman dressed in a grey pant suit. Steve opened the door just far enough to greet her politely and see who she was.

“Mr Rogers,” she started in a matter-of-fact tone as she held up her ID for him to read. “Karen Anderson, CIA. Is Mr James Barnes available? I’d like to speak with him.”

She’d come alone, no backup anywhere visible - though she probably had a pair of officers waiting outside in a car. There was no reason to be alarmed about her visit, and Steve knew  she probably was here on the president’s orders. Nevertheless, he threw a glance back at Bucky, waiting for his sign of approval - a small nod - before he let her in.

Bucky had gotten to his feet, poised and only slightly wary. He readily took the woman's hand when she approached him, and his gaze flickered only briefly over to Steve.

“Mr Barnes, I’ve been told you could provide us with some information?” she asked, her tone having become a bit warmer as soon as she was facing Bucky, and Steve immediately got the impression that she must be very good at what she did. It was the reason why he hesitated when she turned to look at him again as if prompting him to leave.

“Would you like something to drink?” he asked instead but only received a curt shake of her head and a “no, thank you,” as response.

It was protocol to speak with an asset in private, Steve knew that, but she also had to know that it made no difference in this case whatsoever as Bucky probably wouldn’t keep every word they spoke to himself.

Nevertheless, Steve decided that he’d allow her to at least maintain that appearance. “I’ll be in the bathroom,” he said and, after having assured himself that Bucky was okay with this, left the living room. Turning on the small radio beneath the bathroom window he decided that the room could use a good scrub anyway.

 

***

 

Once the door had closed behind Steve, Bucky directed his attention back to the woman, wondering if he'd actually be able to help her with whatever information she hoped he might give her. His memories of Hydra were still jumbled, not a lot made sense. Most of the time he actively tried really hard not to think about Hydra at all. So it was with a certain tension that he regarded her even as she looked entirely calm and professional in his presence.

“I’ve been briefed by the president himself,” she started then. “I’m the head of the CIA's Special Activities Division for Eastern Europe. I have just returned from Prague. We’ve been monitoring some activities there that we believe to be linked to Hydra. I was hoping you could confirm that suspicion. Shall we sit down?”

"Please," Bucky returned and gestured towards the table. "I just hope you didn't make the trip in vain."

Once they had both sat down at the dining table, Agent Anderson took a file out of her briefcase - plain brown casing with no descriptions. “I want you to have a look at these satellite photos,” she said as she opened it and pulled out two slightly grainy pictures. “It’s a location near Hodonín on the Czech-Slovak border. Does that sound or look familiar to you?”

Bucky drew the pictures towards him, feeling tense in anticipation. He just hadn’t had to face this part yet, had always been able to avoid talking about it with Steve, but now that wasn’t so easy anymore.

He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the grainy top shots of the facility didn’t speak to him in any way, and after a moment he had to shake his head.

“Sorry…”

“How about this one?” she asked, her tone patient but also insistent. The next picture was a regular photograph of the vineyards nearby. Then came one of a narrow river, a picturesque small town square. And then another one of the facility she had shown him, this time a photograph of the front entrance of the large  building that looked like any average storehouse. “Anything that seems even remotely familiar?”

But Bucky had gone still already, because with the picture of the front entrance had come a strong sense of déjà vu and his heart started pounding frenetically. It lasted only a moment, but after it he still needed to forcibly pull himself together.

“This,” he said, fingertip tapping briefly on the edge of the picture, and Bucky swallowed. “I was there.”

“Yes, you were,” she said with a tone that was calm and gentle but still firm. “We found a cryo tube inside. You were kept there at some point, we believe.”

It was hard not to show any reaction to that, the mere words making him freeze up and a helpless, immobile kind of silent panic made it almost impossible to swallow. His gaze moved up to her face, but he remained silent because he didn’t trust his voice, and she hadn’t asked him any direct question.

“This picture was taken in late March,” she went on and pointed at the first satellite picture again before she pulled out another, now showing the same location just with an array of trucks and people loading or unloading crates and boxes. “This on the day after the helicarriers went down. They used the facility as storage. For what, we don’t know. Weapons, technical equipment. It was all gone when we got there. Do you remember any of that?”

“There were always weapons.” Bucky had to keep himself from getting out of the chair, staying very still despite wanting to. “Where I was, anyway. There was the… the…” He had to pause, take a slow breath, hating how his voice sounded. “Did you find the chair?”

Her brow furrowed briefly, but then she simply shook her head. “No, just the cryo chamber, and some metal waste that we think must have been spare plates for your arm. So you don’t know what they kept there specifically, even after you were gone from the facility? Do you know this man here?” She now pointed at a close-up of the satellite photo and a man, clad in military clothes, who made the mistake of partially lifting his head in direction of the sky, and this time Bucky jolted in his chair before he could stop himself.

“I…” he began instinctively. Despite lacking anything clear, any comprehensive memory beyond a chaotic jumble, he realised there wasn’t any explanation for his body to go as rigid as this other than the answer being, “Yes.”

“You do?” she asked, sounding surprised and pleased. “Do you remember his name?”

Bucky realised just then that he didn’t want to, he didn’t want to remember any of this,  he wanted to shove it all back down into a box and keep it hidden there, because the only thing this gave him was a feeling of dread. Of what he didn’t know, but it was very real.

He remembered thinking of that huge black dam that was starting to crack.

“Šimek,” Bucky heard himself say nevertheless. The name, somehow, had escaped the box and wouldn’t be put back into it anyway.

Anderson smiled encouragingly, and she waited another few seconds, probably for him to add a first name. “Anything else you can think of right now? Other names, locations close-by? Anything of relevance?”

Maybe there was, if he dug just a little deeper, but the thought was terrifying. Bucky wasn’t exactly sure what it was that had him react like this, as though those worst parts of his nightmares might just be real.

He tried to swallow, but his mouth was parched and his throat felt like sandpaper.

“Can I… Does it have to be right now?”

Agent Anderson regarded him for a long moment, her head inclined, brow furrowed, and for the tiniest of moments Bucky thought the look reminded him of one he’d often gotten from Steve, too.

“Of course,” she said then, reaching into her briefcase and handing him a card with just her initials and a phone number on it. “You can call me any time. We really appreciate what you are doing. Even if it was just one name you could give us today, it’s a really good start.”

“I’m sorry,” he felt the need to say, because there was more, he knew that, and he knew that these people were trying to find and stop Hydra. And he wanted to do more than this. But his head felt fuzzy right now as if it had dropped the pretense of not being the chaotic muddle it really was, and it took effort to think straight.

“That’s fine,” she said kindly, and got up from her seat. “Like I said, if you can think of anything else just give me a call. And it’s possible I’ll contact you again once we have acquired more information. I trust we both want to see them brought down.” She reached her hand out and Bucky nodded, shaking it almost in an afterthought.

She left then, must have let herself out without even saying goodbye to Steve, Bucky wasn't sure. His head was swimming, and for at least half an hour, he did nothing but sit there and try to sort it back into some semblance of quiet. To be calm enough for when he was going to face Steve again.

That night, the nightmares were back, unsurprisingly. The first one was so vague that Bucky woke with nothing more than a disoriented, bad feeling, but the second one trapped him in place, made him unable to move while faceless people worked on him, asked him questions until he finally, inevitably, gave a wrong answer. The looks of disappointment on their faces terrified him even before they said, “Wipe him again.”

Bucky lay frozen in the dark for a long, long time before realising that he was awake. That Steve was sleeping next to him, that this was a bed and not the chair or a cold metal table, and that there were no straps or cuffs keeping him in place.

Breath didn’t come easily even then, and he had to roll out of bed and stand under too hot water in the shower for a long time before he started to feel warm again.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sam makes a return (and there is cake).

The diner Sam had picked didn’t look it would give either of them food poisoning. There was a recent article about the ‘Best homemade burgers in town’ framed and hanging on the wall above the bar, and the place was so packed that Steve was grateful Sam had been smart enough to make a reservation. The wait as well as the drive here had already given Steve ample opportunity to tell Sam everything about the latest developments, their meeting with the president and the visit by the CIA agent the day before.

At least they had already gotten their drinks: two large glasses of ice-cold, freshly made lemonade that reminded Steve of the one Bucky’s mother had always made for them, back in what still sometimes felt like another life.

"So how do you think did the whole CIA thing go for him?" Sam asked, taking a casual sip from his lemonade, but his attention clearly on Steve.

Steve had to take a slightly deeper breath at that, shrugging faintly. “I’m not exactly sure. I mean he did tell me what she wanted and what she showed him, but… Well, I guess it’s not difficult to imagine it’s probably not high up on his list of favourite topics right now.” Steve left out the fact that Bucky had been rather quiet after the agent had left, for most of the evening. Though he certainly also hadn’t gone back to complete apathy or heavy tension. And Steve had been glad to discover that, for all the lack of conversation, Bucky had not shied away from any touches, but welcomed, even looked for them, as much as before. “It was also good that she understood not to pressure him too much,” he went on then. “The president must have told her that they kept wiping his memories.”

"The _president_. Still blows my mind," Sam shook his head, a small, wry grin of disbelief on his face.

“I know what you mean,” Steve said with a smile around a soft huff of amusement. He still sometimes wondered what - other than weighing the counter-arguments against it and finding them lacking - had prompted the leap of faith he’d taken. Everything had gone so much more smoothly than he would have ever thought, had it not been for that rescue mission.

Sam was quiet for a while, looking contemplative, but his face lit up when the waiter brought them their burgers and fries.

"Aahh just look at these. Have you had burgers at home yet?'

“Since my cooking skills are kind of limited, yeah,” Steve said with a small grin, though he had to acknowledge the ones he had made for Bucky and himself had hardly looked this delicious. “Not as easy to overcook as steak.”

"True," Sam grinned. "Did you have burgers _back then?_ Man, I have no idea, I'm so sorry."

Steve had to laugh around his first bite of a burger that not only looked but tasted more delicious than any he’d had before.

“Of course we had burgers. We just called them liberty steaks during the war.”

Sam blinked at him in surprise. "You did what?"

Steve smirked as he took one of his fries, eying it for a moment before putting it in his mouth. “Yeah, people were pretty anti-German back then. So anything that sounded like it came from Germany got a different name. What about these, though? Freedom fries? What problem did you have with the French?”

"That… aahh…" Sam still looked rather surprised, but then shook his head with a small, disbelieving laugh. "That's from the beginning of the war in Iraq a couple of years ago. Half of Europe didn't want to join us, major players like Germany and France, so… You know how we can get sometimes. There were attempts at boycotts. Wine poured onto the streets and stuff like that. But, you know… it all blew over eventually."

“Was there tea thrown into the harbour or were the British for it?” Steve asked before taking another bite of his burger.

"Yeah, the Brits are actually siding with us most of the time these days. On all the things they probably shouldn’t," Sam gave Steve a lopsided smirk and finally gathered up his burger. "There's a lot more butting heads with the Germans, but, you know, in a totally non violent way."

“Let’s see how that’ll go in the soccer world cup,” Steve said. There had been many things he had learned about today’s society that he registered with some incredulity. Of course, people had been irrational and hot-headed in his time as well, but then again there had been a real world war going on, and the media had handled things completely differently. Or maybe that was just his own biased perception and he was, indeed, ‘getting old’. “We’re in the same preliminary group, aren’t we?”

"Man, I’ve got absolutely no clue," Sam laughed. "I'm staying firmly in my basketball corner. Hey, have you ever played? We should get together to play some time."

Steve shrugged as he swallowed down another bite with a large gulp of lemonade. “I did shoot a few hoops in my days, yeah, but… I wasn’t exactly good at it what with being at least one foot shorter than an average player. And during the war there wasn’t really enough time. Bucky was pretty good at it, though.”

"The way you talk about him it sounds like he’s pretty good at everything," Sam regarded him with a small smile.

“He’s shit at drawing,” Steve replied, trying to guard the smile that wanted to spread on his lips and that might have given away what else had immediately come to his mind. He took another bite of his burger as Sam laughed.

"Well thank God for that. Would be pretty depressing otherwise."

Steve requited the light-hearted banter with another faint smirk, though he did wonder whether he had been talking about Bucky so much - and so highly - that it had become obvious. Sam probably wasn’t limiting his observation to their current conversation but basing it on other things Steve had said.

While quietly eating his burger, it occurred to him that he had also mentioned Bucky beating him at card games, had told him the one or other anecdote from their youth, how every girl in Brooklyn had wanted to dance with Bucky. As for recent occasions, he had told Sam how pleased he had been to see him rediscover his liking for music even though he had not yet reached the same level of knowledge he used to have of it.

“You know, maybe you two could play sometime,” he said then, picking some of the last fries from his plate. “I’ve been meaning to get him out of the house more. At least there’s no problem with that anymore now.”

“Sure, whenever he wants to.” There wasn’t even a trace of hesitance, and Steve appreciated yet again how open-minded Sam just always seemed to be, how unbiased. He finished his burger and washed the rest down with more lemonade. “You think he’s up for that yet?”

“I don’t know,” Steve admitted. “It’s just that… I think it might be good, you know. To be around other people once in a while. I mean his life shouldn’t just--” He stopped himself before he could have ended the sentence with ‘revolve only around me’, and it hit him then, probably fully for the first time that, so far, it had. And Steve, a little selfishly, had enjoyed that. “It shouldn’t take place in that apartment,” he finished instead, and Sam nodded instantly.

“It’s a safe space right now, and that’s good. With everything he’s been through, he needs to take baby steps. But you’re right, at some point he does need to expand that space. I’m surprised he’s doing so well all on his own, to be honest,” he added then, a bit more serious now.

“What do you mean?” Steve asked, momentarily alarmed that Sam had hinted he shouldn’t have left Bucky alone, but then that thought quickly disappeared again; he’d been gone before for longer amounts of time. “Oh. You mean… like your group meetings?”

“Yeah. Only I’d say one-on-one meetings in his case,” his friend gave a small, wry smile. “How much do you think he’s keeping inside, deals with on his own?”

Steve frowned and looked down onto the surface of the lemonade in the almost empty glass; same as when Natasha had made the suggestion, Steve felt rather sceptical about it.

“I’m not sure, but… he’s talking more and more. And you know, some people prefer to deal with stuff by themselves. Nothing wrong with that.” After all, Steve also hadn’t needed a therapist when he had come back after having been frozen for seventy years and finding pretty much everyone he ever knew and cared about dead and the whole world completely changed.

Even though the gesture was subtle, Steve could see that Sam was drawing one eyebrow up at him.

“I have absolutely no doubt that he’d prefer that. It’s just not always the easiest or smartest thing to do, is all I’m saying.”

Steve could only shrug at that again. A part of him knew that both Sam and Natasha did have a point with what they were suggesting; and the mere fact that two people who had been through vaguely similar experiences in their lives separately made such a suggestion spoke for itself. However - and he couldn’t even really put his finger on the reason why - it didn’t seem like something that Bucky would make use of.

“I wouldn’t even know how to bring that up to him. And like I said, he’s doing really great and better day by day.”

That slightly raised eyebrow was still there as Sam drank the rest of his lemonade.

“Does he even know the option’s there? And that therapy is mighty different these days?”

It did take Steve some effort to suppress the impatient sigh that wanted to escape him; he wiped his mouth with his napkin to hide it. As great as this had started and as happy as he was spending some time with Sam again, he did not feel like discussing this in detail. “I’ll let him know,” he said instead, giving Sam a small smile.

“Great. So what now, do we want dessert?” his friend replied, casually leaning back in the booth they were in.

“That sounds good. I’ve had my eyes on their apple pie,” Steve said, glancing over to the counter where several delicious looking pies and cakes were on display. “Or the cheesecake. Actually, I should bring Bucky a slice, too. Any recommendations?”

There was a smile on Sam’s face then that seemed entirely too amused to Steve, and he had the feeling he was missing something. But Sam only said, “No idea what his preferences are, but the cheesecake is really good.”

“Yeah, I think I’ll have that,” Steve decided and gestured for the waiter to take their order, asking him to pack a second slice to go.

“But you go and ask him if he does feel like playing a bit,” Sam said once they were alone again. “I kind of like him so far, but if he says yes, that might skyrocket.”

Steve’s smile was completely genuine this time. “Glad to hear that. A few weeks ago you were still worried he’d murder me in my sleep.”

Getting a soft laugh in return, Steve felt a warm mixture of relief and even pride, confirming what he had been convinced of for as long as he’d known Bucky, who people had always been fond of so easily.

It was about time Bucky realised that, too.

 

***

 

“I’m gonna turn off the light, okay?” Steve waited for Bucky’s nod and reached over to the nightstand, extinguishing the small lamp. It was still not completely dark in the bedroom, the faint light from street lamps coming in through the thin curtains, and Steve didn’t mind that fact at all.

Turning back onto his side, he could faintly see the outlines of Bucky’s upper body and face. He lifted his left hand and, as he had done so naturally and automatically in the past few nights, let it rest on Bucky’s shoulder, thumb drawing small circles on jaw and cheek.

It still amazed him how easy it all felt, how natural those small gestures came to him. As if he had done it his entire life. Although touching - hugging, patting each other on the back - hadn’t been a rare occurrence between them _before_ , these small, affectionate and _intimate_ touches were something rather different. It should feel new to him, overwhelming, and in many ways it did, but Steve didn’t feel like it was something he still needed getting used to. Didn’t hesitate either when he leaned in and brushed his lips on Bucky’s for a soft, sweet kiss goodnight.

He thought it curious that, even though Bucky obviously enjoyed the touches, it were these small, brief kisses that he seemed to know least what to do with. It was always Steve who initiated them - and he didn’t mind that either - while it was mostly Bucky who kissed him when he wanted it to be more than that. And this time was no exception, as Bucky didn’t make any move to tell him he didn’t want it, but he didn’t do much more than accepting the gesture.

The sheets rustled softly after that, letting Steve know that Bucky had turned onto his back, just as he had done the handful of nights that he had spent in this bed before.

“Good night,” Steve said softly, remaining on his side and letting his hand rest on Bucky’s belly above the blanket. It took a few moments in which he could feel the soft rising and falling of Bucky’s breathing, but eventually he heard a low, quiet “Night” in return.

It didn’t take long after that for Steve to fall asleep, his thoughts blurring into comfortable nothingness just as he hit sleep.

He was startled out of it again when it was decidedly not morning yet. His senses immediately focussed on the man next to him. The first thing he registered was a gasp, then Bucky’s body was curled on itself, hands pressing against his head like he had done every time his memories had crashed into his mind like through broken flood gates, leaving him disoriented and in pain.

“Bucky? Hey, Bucky,” Steve tried gently to not startle him. He reached over, hand searching Bucky’s upper arm with a gentle touch to draw his attention back to the here and now.

The moment his hand touched Bucky’s skin, however, Steve felt him flinch, his body jerking away and half out of bed, still hunched and shaking and making faint choking sounds.

“Buck, it’s me,” Steve said, forcing his voice to remain gentle but louder in volume, having to fight against the twisting feeling in his chest. Seeing Bucky like this, and even just remotely imagining what the reasons for such an episode could be, made him ache in sympathy and concern. He quickly reached behind him to switch on his bedside lamp.

“Hey, Bucky, look at me,” he said the moment there was light again, reaching out once more in another attempt to give Bucky something to calm him.

Steve barely had enough time to register what was happening as the second his fingertips found Bucky’s skin again he lashed out, metal hand hitting Steve in the chest and throwing him back just as Bucky stumbled out of bed. He hit the edge of the nightstand with his shoulder but didn’t feel pain, only his heart hammering in his chest. Steve sat up and looked around for a moment trying to assess the situation.  Bucky was sitting against the opposite wall, one hand raised against the light of the bedside lamp, breathing harshly, gaze flickering around in complete disorientation.

“Bucky? It’s me. I’m…” Steve hardly knew what to say or do other than switching the light off again and trying his luck in the darkness.

His eyes needed a few moments to get used to it again, but he still heard Bucky’s irregular, heavy breathing, the soft sounds of movement, how he swallowed.

Steve dared do so much as to sit up completely and slide down towards the end of the bed, but he didn’t  approach Bucky. He didn’t care about being pushed or even hit, but he most definitely wanted to avoid anything that would agitate him any further.

“Bucky?” he tried again. “Hey. Are you with me?”

It took a few moments longer, his eyes adjusting and starting to make out Bucky’s contours, and he could see how he was staring into his direction now, probably seeing as much. He drew in a few more deep gulps of air, only slowly calming somewhat.

“Steve?”

He felt a shaky sigh coming over his lips as he got up from the bed at last, moving over to where Bucky was sitting in an instant and kneeling down in front of him. He wanted nothing more than to take Bucky in his arms, but he hesitated nevertheless. “I’m here,” he just said. “It’s okay, Bucky. I’m here.”

To his surprise Bucky was the one to reach out now, his fingers tangling, clenching in Steve’s shirt as if he needed him to stay just there, where he was close enough that he could actually stare into his face now, into his eyes, still shaking.

“Are you…” he started, then his gaze flickered erratically down over his body before settling on his face again, the look in his eyes reminding Steve of fear. “No, no, you’re not… You got me out… was that real?”

Steve didn’t understand what Bucky was talking about; he couldn’t even begin to comprehend what must trouble a mind like his with everything he had been through. All he could do was lay his arms around Bucky, pull him into a gentle embrace and run one hand over his back in soothing circles. “We were in bed. We were sleeping. Nobody was here and nothing happened. You just had a bad dream.”

“No,” Bucky moaned, and he insisted, the fingers clenched in Steve’s shirt pushing him away again just enough that he could look into his eyes. “Hydra,” he forced out between clenched teeth. “They… he… I was strapped to a table, I thought… but then you were there, I thought you were a hallucination, again, but you got me down from there and took me with you, and we all got back… _was that real_?”

“Oh,” was the first thing Steve could let out as a breathy sound, relieved that, despite the violent reactions it had caused, another memory had come back. Not a happy one, but it meant progress, right? “That was real. You’d gone missing, but I found you and others in that Hydra facility. I found you… just as you’ve described now. So you remember that correctly.”

Bucky just stared at him for a few seconds, his breathing a bit calmer now. “I thought it couldn’t be real,” he said then, his voice rough, still something very raw in his eyes, gaze locked entirely on Steve’s. “They had… And you weren’t… _you_ , you were so goddamn _tall_ , and I thought nothing of that was actually real…”

Again, Steve found it very hard to make sense of any of Bucky’s words. His memories, the events he actually already knew of, or should have known by now, it all seemed to be completely jumbled up in his mind, and Steve had to be very careful not to add any more confusion by asking Bucky to explain what he had said.

“That was the first time you saw me after they’d given me the serum,” he explained. “And I think… yeah, you kind of thought you were hallucinating when I found you.”

Bucky swallowed again, and then his gaze trailed down Steve’s body once more, this time slowly, deliberately. He took it all in, and when he finally looked back into Steve’s face, relief washed over his expression, enough to make him sigh and close his eyes, fingers clenching more tightly in the fabric as he let his head sink forward until his forehead touched Steve’s chest.

Shifting his position until Steve was sitting against the wall as well, he held Bucky in his arms for a long while, caressing his back. Something heavy twisted in his chest, sorrow for Bucky’s pain and fear as well, for the confusing memories he was going through now, and for the loss Steve had gone through himself.

It was a good thing that Bucky remembered, in general, but what made Steve worry now was the fact that a memory that was at least in part a positive one had triggered such a disoriented, almost violent reaction. And suddenly, he couldn’t help but wonder whether Bucky might hurt himself next time if a flashback took him into a situation that bore no resemblance to reality.

Maybe he should address what Natasha and Sam had proposed after all. He just wasn’t sure how.

“Was that… the other things you remembered before,” Steve started carefully, “were they less intense than this one?”

For a few long moments Bucky didn’t reply and didn’t move. Steve briefly wondered if he even might have dozed off, but eventually he murmured, sounding slightly confused, “No… I’m not sure what you mean…”

“Well, the last things you remembered…” Steve found it difficult to choose the right words, didn’t want to make it sound like any kind of accusation. And so he let his hand continue its caresses, wandering up to Bucky’s neck, softly, gently stroking through his hair. “It never worked you over like this before. Not when I was around, at least. Do you think… is it getting more difficult for you?” The thought scared Steve, as he had thought things were getting better, bit by bit, not worse.

It seemed like Bucky needed a few moments again to think about it before eventually giving a very small shrug. “Maybe… The others were less confusing.”

Steve simply nodded, not knowing what else to say.

He had to think of his friends’ words again, particularly Sam’s. Steve knew that Bucky - at least the Bucky he had known in his youth - was proud and didn’t often admit any weaknesses. Maybe, back then, it had mostly been a direct result of their relationship. Bucky had always taken care of Steve - Steve who didn’t enjoy being made feel like he couldn’t get by on his own and was too weak and sickly to take care of himself. He’d been quite stubborn about that, often, and Bucky had patiently dealt with it all, so often focused on Steve’s needs more than his own.

It may not have looked like that on the outside. Bucky had always known how to enjoy himself, had found it easy to fit in with most people, was liked and admired. But there had been occasions in which Steve had wondered in hindsight whether Bucky wasn’t keeping things that troubled him out of Steve’s reach.

Now, that dynamic had shifted completely, or at least it had become very fuzzy and hard to grasp, and Steve didn’t fully know how to take care of Bucky, repay him for what he had done for Steve during almost his entire childhood and early adult life. He was clearly and frustratingly out of his depth with so many things.

“You know,” he started, clearing his throat. “When soldiers return from war they often find it difficult to fit back into a normal life. Even if what they’ve experienced was simpler than…” He left the rest of the sentence unspoken, not wanting to remind Bucky of how horribly messed up his story was. “They often get help from people who know more about how to handle all of this. They go to support groups or talk to a therapist. Maybe…”

Steve faltered when Bucky began to move, drawing his head back and untangling his fingers from Steve’s shirt to be able to look at him instead. It was dark enough that Steve couldn’t really make out more than outlines, but the way he just looked at him without saying anything felt like he was daring him to continue that line of thought.

“Maybe you could speak to someone too. A therapist, I mean. They could help you get your memories back without it being too overwhelming,” Steve said, and Bucky remained quiet for a few long moments.

When he spoke, his voice was flat. “Do you really believe that?”

Steve didn’t have to think of an answer for long, though he sensed that the question was reflecting the same kind of doubt he had felt and would have felt even more if it were he who was being confronted with the same possibility. After all, he had chosen to deal with whatever trauma he had brought back by himself, too.

“Yes, I do,” he said, forcing a smile onto his lips. “Otherwise a great bunch of people would do their jobs for naught.”

Bucky gave one nod that looked everything but convinced.

“No.”

He wasn’t surprised, not really. But the brevity of his answer made it sound rather final. Steve suppressed a sigh with difficulty.

“I think it could really help you, though. What are-- Why do you think it’s not a good idea?” he pressed on as carefully as he could.

He received a soft huff in reply to that. “How do you picture that? I walk into the office of the next shrink who’s probably still gawking about the fact that _you’re_ alive in the 21st century and tell him all about the people I killed in the past sixty years in between being put on ice myself?”

“Well, there are people who are trained to work with people like us, specifically. There were therapists inside SHIELD. So whatever it is, they’re used to the more unusual circumstances.”

This time he did see Bucky’s eyebrows go up. “SHIELD,” he deadpanned, an edge now to his voice that was new. “What if they’re Hydra?”

Steve should have seen that question coming, and for a long while he couldn’t think of an adequate answer. “Not everyone in SHIELD was Hydra. There were many people who stood up to Hydra as soon as they realised what was going on. Most of them had been used the entire time without having the faintest clue who they were working for. You know I was one of them, too. A lot of what I did, what I believed was the right thing to do, was part of fulfilling Hydra’s grand scheme of things. So if you can trust me then I’m sure we can find a former SHIELD or even just CIA therapist you could trust as well.”

It was quiet for a long time then. Steve could barely hear the faint sounds of breathing from them both as the seconds ticked down before finally, eventually, Bucky looked away from him and shook his head, letting it tip back against the wall.

“You can’t be sure of that.”

The sigh Steve had fought earlier now came over his lips as he didn’t have anything of absolute certainty to retort. Of course, there were many ways to determine whether such a person could be trusted, but there’d always be a risk, however small. Maybe Bucky was right, and Steve should leave it at that. He could still broach the subject another time. He should not have, and hadn’t really, expected Bucky to be all for the idea right away.

“All right. Let’s get back to bed,” he said, backing down for now.

As he got to his feet, Bucky remained sitting for a moment longer, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his right hand.

“You do that. I’ll go take a shower.”

Steve didn’t feel very comfortable leaving Bucky alone right now; he’d prefer for them to just curl up in bed together, for him to be there, hold Bucky and, at least on some level, make him feel everything was going to be all right. Nevertheless, he nodded and gave Bucky an encouraging smile. “Okay. Are you coming back to bed after that?”

Bucky pulled himself up to his feet and adjusted his t-shirt by tugging on the collar, not quite looking at Steve when he replied, “Yeah.”

Steve just nodded again and climbed back into bed. Even though he was sleepy, his thoughts didn’t seem to want to rest, and when Bucky joined him again, a while later, Steve was quite sure they were both lying there, next to each other, feigning sleep.

For the first time, he could feel the serene happiness of those past few days painfully slipping away from them.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which joy and pain go hand in hand.

Steve returned from his run with Sam with a small paper bag that smelled so good Bucky’s mouth was watering by the time its content was finally unwrapped, right after Steve had taken a quick shower. They sat down on the couch with two large pieces of cake, dark and saturated with chocolate, so good that they even managed to push away every last trace of that heavy silence that had lingered between them since the incident four nights before.

Steve had pointedly changed nothing in his behaviour and done his best to bring them back to normality immediately after. He had shown Bucky some more music, new and old, had chatted about mundane things over dinner and had told him about Sam’s invitation to play basketball, which Bucky had declined after some hesitation, at least for the time being. But despite Steve’s efforts to maintain a pleasant mood between them, what had happened that night had shaken Bucky, even if he didn’t want to admit it nor let it show. The violence of the memories that had hit him had been excruciating, and it had jumbled his mind more than any had done before.

What he had told Steve had only been half of the truth. That he wasn’t entirely sure if it had only been harder this time because the memories had been more confusing had been a lie. It had been harder because it had played right into doubts his mind had experienced when originally living through those moments. He had gone back to bed after his shower, like he had promised, but sleeping had been impossible for him. He had needed to use what was left of the night to sort through those memories while looking at Steve, who had eventually fallen asleep again. By the time morning had come, he’d known that the memory had been, in fact, real and that the experience, his rescue from the Hydra facility that first time, had been, too.

Despite Steve’s efforts, Bucky had found himself more quiet than usual, feeling guilty whenever the feeling crept up on him that he didn’t or couldn’t give Steve everything he hoped for. He still wasn’t sure if Steve wasn’t waiting for the old Bucky to come back some day, but what he was sure of was that that would never happen.

He had hoped it was over; the past couple of weeks, when things had gone so well, he had almost believed it. Now, that horrible uncertainty about what was real and what memories he could trust caught up to him again. Hydra had so often played with his perception, had made him believe so many things that hadn't been real,  and now he struggled with trusting anything at all.

Nevertheless Bucky found himself feeling relieved when they sat on the couch together with those slices of cake, and the mood was relaxed enough that a dry joke about the potential illegality of Steve’s face while eating it left his lips before he could really think about it.

Steve smiled at him then, and it was a much more genuinely amused and happy smile than the thin, regretful ones he’d given him so often the days before. It wasn’t difficult to see that things were deeply troubling him as well, despite his own efforts to conceal it. And that only added to Bucky’s guilt.

“Good, huh?” Steve asked, before he’d even swallowed his bite, and Bucky actually found the corners of his mouth twitching as he slowly sucked the chocolate off his own fork.

They sat as they often did these days, Steve upright with his long legs stretched under the coffee table, and Bucky in his corner leaning against the armrest, the plate with the rest of the cake nestled on his stomach.

“Who did you have to bribe for this, hm?”

“Nobody, actually,” Steve replied with a smirk. “Apparently the bakery down the street simply makes cake this good and _sells_ it. God,” he nearly _moaned_ as he took another small piece into his mouth, rolling his eyes in delight and letting out a relishing sound.

Bucky found his gaze very much stuck on the other man. He slowly licked the chocolate out of the corners of his mouth before hiding a small smile and glancing down to pick another forkful.

“Not just a sex face, now there are sex noises as well.”

Steve had just closed his mouth around his fork, halting in his movement, before one eyebrow quirked up. “Well. I don’t know about that,” he said, a small smirk on his lips that was the tiniest bit bashful.

Bucky grinned back, amused despite himself. “I wouldn’t be surprised.”

It was priceless to see the subtle changes on Steve’s features. The corners of his mouth twitched into a little grin, and he lowered his gaze onto his almost empty plate, forcing it all down to a deadpan expression. “You sound like you’d like to find out,” he said dryly before he put the last bite of cake into his mouth.

Bucky raised his eyebrows at him.

“Did your self-confidence grow along with those muscles of yours or did you always have a mouth like that?”

“I guess the serum had its effects,” Steve replied almost nonchalantly. “But yeah, I guess I did,” he ended with a smirk.

Somehow Bucky wasn’t surprised at all. It seemed like the part of him that still remembered what was buried somewhere in him sometimes came out and took over for a while. It was a strange thought, and a scary one that made something in his insides twitch. Bucky pushed it away and looked at Steve instead.

“Bet you put that to good use?”

He regretted the question as soon as it was out.

Steve did not seem to fully understand his question at first, brow slightly furrowed and then raised in question as he looked back at Bucky. “You mean…” He let out a short, breathy chuckle. “Are you actually asking if I’m a virgin?”

Bucky put another forkful of cake into his mouth, giving himself at least a few seconds of time to mull over what had been a rather stupid implication. Of course Steve wasn’t still a virgin. “Forget it,” he replied as casually as he could.

“No, no, it’s okay,” Steve said calmly, putting his own empty plate onto the coffee table. “So, you’re asking about… my experience?”

He let his gaze meet Steve’s again, appreciating that he seemed to want to be honest with him, but for some reason Bucky wasn’t sure he wanted to know. He gave Steve a small smile and finished his cake, putting the empty plate onto the coffee table as well.

“It’s fine. We don’t have to talk about that.”

“Well, good,” Steve replied with a perfectly even tone. ”Because there isn’t much to talk about. At all, actually.”

Bucky’s gaze snapped back up to Steve. He still felt strange, his mind sorting both old and new memories, switching between them and unable to pinpoint where he was right now. His chest felt tight as if Steve had a hand on it and was pressing down. Was that what he had wanted to hear?

“Why not?”

Steve shrugged faintly. “The right occasion just didn’t present itself. First in the war and then after I woke up… I was pretty busy.”

Bucky processed the answer for a moment, jaw working, and then he licked his lips before accepting the reply with a nod, not sure how to continue that line of conversation. He decided he should probably just let it go.

Steve was quiet for a while, leaning back against the couch a bit more comfortably. His gaze drifted - not quite completely - in Bucky’s direction a few times before he finally turned around to look at him again.

“Doesn’t mean I’m completely _un_ confident in that area,” he started, his gaze firm and gentle at the same time. And a little bit of something else. “I’m pretty confident around you, actually.”

Bucky glanced over at him again, the expression on Steve’s face making his heart stutter for a brief moment.

“How come?”

Another small chuckle came over Steve’s lips, and he shifted in his seat, arm on the backrest of the couch, one knee on the cushions. “I don’t know. Maybe because I want to be. Because it matters now. Because it’s you.”

There was a part of him that scoffed in incomprehension, but it was undeniable that, most of all, Steve’s words made Bucky want to kiss him. It was an urge he found impossible to resist and it made him feel weak and vulnerable. But, fuck, he didn’t _care_ , not enough to keep himself from pushing forward onto his knees, slide the fingertips of his right hand into the short soft hairs in the nape of Steve’s neck, and lean over him to do what he wanted.

A delicious sound came over Steve’s lips, caught by Bucky’s, indeed reminiscent of the sounds he’d made enjoying the cake. He still tasted of it, too, the sweetness of the chocolate and underneath a little bit of what was uniquely Steve. His hands, too, reached around Bucky’s back and shoulders, pulling him in closer as his lips parted further and the tips of their tongues connected. Steve deepened the kiss even more as he let himself sink backwards, pulling Bucky with him, and he tasted so _damn good_ that Bucky could only follow him to not break the kiss.

He crawled over Steve, his left arm reaching for the backrest of the couch to support most of his weight, the fingers of his right one sliding over the skin of the back of Steve’s neck, curling there as their kiss deepened and his knees slid further up on the cushions, one between Steve’s legs, the other next to them. Bucky still hadn’t quite gotten used to this, that this was Steve and him, and that this was part of them now. He couldn’t comprehend that he was doing this at all, have this kind of intimacy ( _any_ kind of intimacy), but something in his mind, in his chest was roaring, _weeping_ with joy.

“God, Bucky,” Steve sighed, whispered - a short moment in which he barely broke the kiss, his lips still close to Bucky’s, breath warm against them. Steve pulled him down again, slid further down onto the cushions, as he brought his lips - warm and so damn delicious - to Bucky’s.

It was amazing, really, how Steve was pulling Bucky against him and pushing himself up to get close and closer. Fingers in his hair, on his back, half caressing, half digging into the muscle above his right shoulder-blade. As if he couldn’t get enough, as if he enjoyed this _so much_. It made Bucky’s heart hammer in his chest from a thrill that had decidedly nothing to do with the adrenaline of a fight, or of any kind he had ever known. This was burning somewhere deep in his gut.

Bucky instinctively followed Steve’s movements and subtle prompts again, slid down further onto his body. Their legs tangled, their hips and chests aligned, and Bucky’s fingers slid up into Steve’s hair, tightening there as he bit into Steve’s lower lip, for the moment letting go of his ever present struggle with memories and fragments and especially the images and feelings of his nightmares, focussing on nothing but this.

Steve let out a throaty groan, pushing his head back as Bucky’s lips briefly abandoned his, only to take Bucky’s face in both his hands and kiss his mouth a second later, biting gently, sucking on his lower lip. Where their lower bodies were touching, Bucky could feel that Steve had become hard, and this time, instead of moving away, he deliberately pushed his hips up.

It made Bucky’s breath hitch into a strangled gasp between their lips, his toes dug into the couch and his hips pushed back, pressing them together and sending a jolt through his whole body. Steve was smelling so, so good, fresh and shower-soft, and Bucky wanted to bury his face in the crook of his neck to just breathe in, would have, if that hadn’t meant breaking the kiss.

But eventually Steve tore himself from Bucky’s lips, gasping. A small, open-mouthed smile was on his face as he looked up at Bucky, blue eyes slightly glazed over, lips red and swollen and so damn kissable.

This time Steve leaned in to brush his lips gently against Bucky’s cheek, up to his temple. “If we don’t slow down at least a bit I can’t guarantee for anything,” he said right next to Bucky’s ear, the rough, low trembling in his whispered voice sending shivers down Bucky’s spine. It had sounded more like a promise than a warning, and it prompted a low, raw sound in reply while Bucky’s left hand tightened on the cushion of the couch backrest.

“Then don’t,” he growled back and kissed Steve again, catching a shaky moan. When Bucky gently bit into his lower lip again, Steve returned the kiss with equal intensity. One arm wrapped around Bucky’s back, the other in his hair, he brought one knee up to the side of Bucky’s hip, pushing up and fully against him.

It made him shudder, the feeling going through his whole body as they were pressed together, and Bucky felt himself hardening further. It was a completely new kind of pleasure, something that filled him from head to toe, churning in his insides. They started moving their hips with and against each other in an entirely instinctive rhythm, but it was good, so good, making his skin crawl in the best way and letting heat pool deep in his abdomen.

A low sound, half a chuckle, half a moan came over Steve’s lips as he halted in his movements, without lowering the leg that he had wrapped tightly around the back of Bucky’s thighs. “You’re going to make me make a complete fool of myself,” he said, and Bucky had no idea why any of that was relevant right now. As Steve had broken their kiss, he had finally buried his face in the crook of his neck, soaking in his scent, biting down lightly on the sensitive skin, murmuring against it when he replied.

“Always managed that all on your own.”

Steve let out a soft laugh. “That’s true, but it was always more fun when you were there, too.”

Bucky could not have replied even if he had wanted to; just a short moment later, Steve had turned his head, one hand gently guiding Bucky’s face back up, and they were kissing again. It was gentler this time, slower as their lips connected, but the next movement of their hips - equally slow but nonetheless intense - still made Steve release a trembling sigh into the kiss.

There weren’t many things Bucky knew about himself, but in that moment he was rather sure that he wasn’t a patient man. A low, almost frustrated sound made it over his lips, but he forced himself to take a breath and slow down, to close his eyes and tip his forehead against Steve’s, giving in. The next time he rolled his hips against Steve’s, it was slower, matching the new pace.

Steve reached up to Bucky’s neck again, pulling him down for more kisses, but they hardly lasted more than two, three seconds now. His breathing became more ragged, fingertips of one hand digging into Bucky’s buttock through the sweatpants he was wearing.

“I just washed those jeans,” Steve said with as much dry humour as he could muster, considering that he pressed another kiss to Bucky’s lips the second after. “We’re gonna run out of pants.”

“Fucking hell, Steve,” Bucky heard himself growl in exasperation. He pulled away enough to reach down, his own breathing irregular, and started undoing belt, button and fly with quick, impatient fingers.

Steve had the audacity to smirk then, just a tiny twitch of his gorgeous mouth before he brought it to Bucky’s again and let his tongue run across his bottom lip. It took a few moments until he had finally wriggled out of his jeans with Bucky’s help, and their hips connected again, legs entwined, and a much thinner layer of cotton the only thing between their erections, rubbing against one another. The vague feeling of having been played, however, made Bucky drop his attempts at a patient approach again, and he didn’t care what Steve thought it looked like. He thrust their hips together with satisfying firmness, the feeling even better now without the unyielding fabric, and bit into his lip in retaliation.

The kisses turned less focused, rather sloppy after that, interrupted by sigh after sigh and low, open-mouthed groans, and Bucky had taken to watching Steve more than actually trying to kiss him. Steve’s eyes fell shut as his hips met Bucky’s movements with equal intensity, and he clung onto Bucky’s shoulders firmly with one arm. Even while every meeting of their hips made his own body tingle, Bucky kept his gaze firmly on Steve’s face.

He couldn’t remember ever having seen anyone like this. The way Steve’s head had rolled back, eyes closed, lips fallen open, how his throat worked and chest expanded for every breath. The _sounds_ he made. The way he shuddered under him as he came, fingertips digging into his shoulder.

His movements mostly stilled then, only gently riding out the last waves of his release, and Steve’s eyes fluttered open again. Another smile played around his still parted lips as he was catching his breath, but he raised them to Bucky’s a moment later in a kiss so tender, so sweet that Bucky could barely move, unsure how even to respond to it.

In the end he followed Steve’s lead and let him mould their lips together, his metal fingers slowly loosening their tight grip on the backrest.

As if Steve had been waiting for that, he looked Bucky in the eyes again before he slowly, carefully let his hand drift in direction of Bucky’s metal one.

He knew why, and he understood what Steve wanted to tell him with his gesture. But still Bucky couldn’t resist the instinct to pull away. His other hand came up in nearly the same moment though, sliding around Steve’s before he had reached up completely, keeping him from it in the gentlest way he knew.

The smile on Steve’s lips and the look in his eyes were both regretful and understanding. He took Bucky’s right hand and brought it up to his lips, kissing the knuckles tenderly. “Okay. There’s somewhere else I’d like to touch you, though,” he said softly as his other hand slowly wandered down Bucky’s side.

He just watched Steve for a moment longer, his chest tight, but his breathing calm. Eventually Bucky leaned down to kiss him again, just lightly and briefly, before drawing back to disentangle himself and lie back down in the other corner of the couch instead, head on the armrest, a silent invitation for Steve to follow through with his words.

Steve looked him up and down for a moment, eyes still dark, biting his lower lip. Then he was above him, leaning down to kiss Bucky’s face, cheek, chin, down to his neck, as his hand travelled over his chest and belly, and finally, underneath the waistband of his sweatpants.

Bucky simply let his eyes drift shut and his head sink back. He had started getting used to being touched with affection, even tenderly, by Steve, and so he managed to let his body relax enough to just let everything go and leave it to the other man. The warm hand around his length felt foreign but just as good as the friction from before, if not better, making him want to roll his hips up into Steve’s hand for more.

The gentle, affectionate kisses continued - a rather strong contrast to what that hand was doing now, fingers closing around him, thumb brushing over the tip, wiping the slickness from there further down his length to ease his movements. Firm, fast, determined strokes, and for a moment, as a small, relishing sound came over his lips, the wonder that this couldn’t be a man with no experience at all passed through his mind.

It was chased away by the next small flick of Steve’s thumb, and Bucky’s hips rolled up encouragingly, the touches quickly bringing that heated, coiled tightness in his lower half back.

For a moment he found himself wondering again if this all could be real.

“You have no idea…” Steve started whispering, his breath tickling the skin of his jaw, lips almost touching, “how often I thought about doing this.” His low voice was vibrating in his ear, making it sound and feel very real indeed.

For a moment Bucky was reminded of how he had felt on that Helicarrier, when Steve’s words had punched holes into the fabric of his reality. Similarly gut-wrenching, but this time a strangled gasp came over his lips and his hand tangled in Steve’s shirt, his whole body feeling like it had been jolted, a gust of arousal and emotion being pushed through him. He didn’t know why, grappled helplessly for a reason, but the words, _those words_ …

“Steve…”

“God Bucky,” Steve sighed out before he covered Bucky’s lips with his again, a firm, tight contact,free of the earlier frenzy many of their kisses had had and reflecting a completely different kind of emotion.

His hand, however, continued its fast pace, long and firm strokes with just the perfect rhythm and pressure that wrenched his release from him, sudden and forceful, and Bucky could only clench his eyes shut and anchor himself to the man above him with a death grip in his shirt, tremors running through his whole body as he came, and it felt like all control had been taken from him in one scary moment.

But Steve was there, holding him, pulling him against his chest as he had slid onto his side despite the limited space on the couch. Kissed him, again and again, small soothing whispers of affirmation against his temple. _You’re amazing_. _God, Bucky_. _You have no idea. I’m so glad._

It all blurred into one thought and one feeling, despite how jumbled and broken everything else was. That even though there was a faint sense of panic lingering, this was _right_. They were where they should be and he was wanted, desired, cherished.

And, somehow, he was going to be fine.

 

***

 

Bucky was seeing fragments, flashes and puzzle pieces that could be everything and nothing at all. There was white, a lot of white, and dark grey shapes, snow, he thought, and trees. A lot of snow. He was walking through it, the crunch of it beneath his boots and voices behind him, voices of kids. They were running and laughing when he glanced back, boys with dirty knees, suspenders and newsboy caps, but there weren’t any faces he recognised. He turned and walked on, through snow and trees and more snow. A lonely bird of prey circling way overhead.

The entire apartment was dark, but he heard them anyway. Repressed, trembling breaths. He always heard them. There was a thump and then screaming started as he dragged the man out with his metal arm. Two shots were fired, sound choked off by the silencer. Crying, a neck snapping. One more shot, and then nothing else moved but him. Back into the shadows, back into the night outside where a girl was waiting, laughing and grasping his hand to pull him along, for that dance, of course.

It was snowing.

He blinked and the darkness was back, the thirst, the cold. There was no light, no voices, nothing to see, nothing to hear except for his own breaths and sometimes, just sometimes, the sound of dripping. Nothing to touch either, except for cold, moist walls, and his own body. His limbs were cold too, ice cold, and nothing could bring warmth back to them. He just needed… something, _anything_. Food, or at least water. Just a bit of light, just enough to see, no matter what, anything, just… A blanket, a voice, a drink, a pillow… God, a pillow. He thought of home, but his memories were blurring.

He was on his back and there were trees above him, trees and snow, and that man with the thick face and the round glasses, and pure hatred shot through his chest at that thin voice. The man was smiling at him, and he wanted to choke the life out of him, to drain him of his very essence. So his arm shot out and he ignored the scientists scrambling about in alarm, focussed, his arm obeying him as it always did, squeezing down, and how often had he fantasised about this, the shock in those small eyes, the hands scrambling around his for air, finally, _finally_ …

He blinked again and the room was dark, a sliver of moonlight the only thing giving everything contours, but he was still kneeling over him, still…

He was looking into Steve’s scrunched up face, and suddenly Bucky realised what was happening. He gasped and let go, scrambling back until he hit a wall, horror rising in him as he stared and his mind could finally tell dream from reality.

Steve spluttered, gasped, coughed as he rolled himself onto all fours. He held his throat with one hand, still coughing, wheezing air barely able to pass through his constricted windpipe. And he did not look at Bucky, did not give any sign that he was going to be okay. Could only barely hold himself on his limbs, nearly collapsed forward, lower arms on the ground and head between them, taking long, rattling breaths, and for a moment everything in Bucky’s mind went blank and black in terror.

“Steve,” fell from his lips, barely a whisper, and his instinct pushed him forward, off the wall and to his knees, but stopped him at the same moment. “Steve…”

Steve raised an arm, still on his knees and leaned forward, still trying to ease his breathing, and at first, Bucky thought he wanted to keep him off. Then, he weakly shook his head. “‘m okay,” he croaked out. “I’m…” Another fit of coughing that wheezed almost like an asthma attack as he crawled the short distance to the bed. He let himself slump against it, legs outstretched and leaning against the side for support.

Bucky felt as if strings that held his body upright had been cut. He fell back against the wall, and then his whole body began to tremble in shock, because this had been Steve, and he had almost killed him. The one goddamn thing that kept him anchored, the one person he cared about, who cared about _him_.

“I’m sorry,” stumbled over his lips in a half-whisper, still firmly caught in a grip of utter dread. “I’m sorry…”

Steve shook his head again, one hand raised, not yet able to speak as another cough escaped his throat. But he seemed to gather all his strength and crawled over to where Bucky was sitting and slid onto his knees in front of him. “I know. I get it. You didn’t--” the words broke in his sore throat and, in lieu of words, he reached out for Bucky’s forearm, gripped it gently while his other hand only found his knee, each of Steve’s movements still weak and trembling from the effort of trying to fill his lungs.

Bucky wanted to pull back, irrationally afraid that he’d lose control over his own body again if he didn’t, that he’d hurt Steve again, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move, pinned to the spot not by the light grip on his arm but by Steve’s eyes, understanding even when he was struggling to speak, and something in him broke. His throat felt tight as a sob rose in it, escaping his chest that felt like it was being crushed, and he shook his head because he had almost killed Steve, and the last thing he deserved was his sympathy.

The choked sigh Steve let out and the way his hands reached for him said something different. Had he been barely able to move a moment before, Steve must have forgotten that because he closed the remaining distance and wrapped his arms around Bucky tightly, rocking him against his chest. “It’s okay,” he rasped. “It was a dream. You didn’t want to do this. It’s okay, Bucky. I’m okay. It’s not your fault.”

Bucky was shaking his head but he couldn’t speak, no words making it out of his throat. And he wanted to push Steve away, away from him, but he couldn’t do that either, couldn’t do anything but shake his head and try to breathe himself, but even that became hard.

He couldn’t do this. Bucky had always feared something like this, even while they had lived on beautiful but stolen moments, having thought, pretended that all this was getting better, because he had been right… he couldn’t do this. He wasn’t just a goddamn fucking mess, but he was a danger to Steve, and this just couldn’t work.

There were broken, quiet sounds between them, sounding so alien that it took Bucky a moment to realise that they were his, and that the hollow despair clawing at his chest was finding its way out of him through tears and wretched noises.

“It’s going to be all right. Bucky… it’s--” Steve’s voice was still rough and weak, but there was an urgency to it now before he let out another soft sigh. Hands gently stroking over Bucky’s back, not allowing him to bring distance between them. “Please, Bucky… I’m fine. Please calm down. It’s fine.”

But that was far from the truth, and even if Steve didn’t want to see that, Bucky knew it.

He had no idea how long it took until he at least managed to choke the sounds down, only his chest trembling then, constricting whenever he bit down another of those sobs that wanted out, barely daring to breathe at all. He had given up fighting with himself about getting out of the embrace Steve had him in, buried against his chest and now only tried to stop crying.

“Shhhh, it’s okay,” Steve whispered against his ear, and Bucky could feel a kiss being brushed against his hair. “It’s okay.”

Eventually Bucky was able to at least breathe properly again, small, flat breaths, and he forced himself to move back, to raise his hands and dig their heels into his eyes.

“I’m so sorry.”

Steve gave him some space then, just kneeling close, but keeping his arms on Bucky’s shoulders. “I know. I know, Buck. It wasn’t your fault. These things happen. I know you didn’t mean to do this.”

Bucky shook his head and took another breath.

“I could have killed you.”

Steve didn’t seem to have an immediate reply to that, and to Bucky that was like a confirmation of his guilt.

“But you didn’t,” Steve said eventually. “You snapped out of it in time. And… I could have fought back harder, but I can take a lot, you know that. Just… don’t do this to yourself, please.”

That was so Steve, so typical, and it almost made Bucky angry.

“It didn’t need much more, Steve. _Fuck_.”

Steve let out another sigh, and this time it sounded somewhat resigned. Obviously not knowing what else to say, he simply let himself sink against the wall next to Bucky and rested one hand on his lower arm again, unwilling to lose the contact completely.

It was a lot like it had been a couple of nights before, sitting here like that, and yet very different. This was much, much worse.

Bucky had no idea what to do. His head thumped back against the wall and he stared up into the almost darkness of their room, his eyes burning, still feeling too shaken to find words to speak.

There weren’t any that could undo what had happened anyway.

 

***

 

Steve’s throat was aching; a dull, constricting pressure that made him swallow repeatedly to ease the feeling that he couldn’t breathe. The side of his neck, where the metal fingers had dug deep into his muscle, felt sore, and Steve was sure the ugly bruise that was forming wouldn’t fade all that quickly, even on him.

The pain and discomfort, however, were not what had him lie on his bed, on top of the covers, staring into the semi-darkness of the room, sleep the furthest thing from his mind. Bucky had taken pillow and blanket and gone to spend the rest of the night in the living room. He had given no explanation, but it wasn’t hard to guess why he hadn’t wanted to stay with Steve, and Steve found that, despite the dull heaviness the empty space next to him had left, he was… relieved.

No matter how much he had wanted to calm Bucky down, how well he understood that none of this was Bucky’s fault, those moments in which his metal hand had threatened to crush his neck and he had stared at Steve with such hatred in his eyes had frightened Steve like nothing else he could remember. Not even when he had fought Bucky, many weeks ago now, had he felt such overwhelming, paralysing fear in his gut that he hadn’t even been able to fight back.

Things had been so good. Just a few hours ago, Steve had been happiest in a long, long time. It all felt like a much too distant memory now, surreal compared to the pain and fear and shock that had brought him back into cold and merciless reality. Things were not fine. Despite the many small moments of progress, of intimacy and pleasure, the truth they both had wanted to deny for most of the time had been hanging over them like the sword of Damocles. And tonight, it had nearly dealt a fatal blow.

He had been so stupid, so naively hopeful that, with enough care and affection and given enough time, Bucky would recover from everything he had been through. But that had been a comfortable illusion. Natasha and Sam had both been right. He should have realised that four nights ago, shouldn’t have dismissed that incident as just one of few, with no room for any aggravation. And now he wondered if he had missed more than that, if he hadn’t wanted to see just how much Bucky had really hidden from him, had tried to deal with on his own just as Sam had said. Maybe Steve had thought he’d been doing much better than he really had.

Now, with every passing minute, he became more and more aware of just how wrong he’d been. His thoughts, unintentionally, drifted into darker scenarios, questions he dared not answer but was unable to ignore. What if this, too, had not yet been the worst?

A twisting, tearing feeling pulled on his insides then, and Steve brought his knees up closer to his chest, felt his nose tingle and his eyes burn as it spread through his gut and chest. If he gave in to it now, let it happen, then it all would become frighteningly real. What had started between them, what Bucky had made him feel and experience - it would all go away. At least for now, until things got better. If they ever could.

It was that thought that made his chest constrict painfully, a hitched breath stumbling over his lips and adding to the agony of his already tight throat, and he couldn’t prevent the sob from leaving him any longer. Biting down on his pillow to strangle the sound so that Bucky wouldn’t hear it in the next room, he let the burning tears flow.

And suddenly, the only thing he wanted was to get up, go to Bucky and hold him tight. Forget everything he had just thought and feared and realised. It had been premature. Things couldn’t really be that bad. They would figure this out and find a solution, and he’d still hold Bucky in his arms at night and kiss him during the day, and they’d be fine.

The only trouble was that Steve didn’t know how.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky finally decides things are going to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, thank you all for reading so far! We will be a bit slower with the updates for the next few chapters, as our beta-reader is currently busy with our other project (As Loud as Our Hearts), and we're a little behind on editing our chapters as well. We're going to try to post once a week, though (or every 10 days, tops).  
> And now, have fun with the next chapter. If you liked it please let us know. :)

The next day, the atmosphere between them was unprecedentedly tense. Steve had only been able to fall asleep again very late that night, as the sky outside had already started to get lighter, and when he got up - after still too little sleep - he caught Bucky on his way out. He didn’t look at Steve, only mumbled under his breath that he’d go for a run, and Steve spent the following two hours finding himself increasingly worried, frightened even, that Bucky might never return.

But he did, at last, and although he spent longer than usual in the bathroom afterwards, Steve was able to proverbially catch his breath and focus on what to do next.

His thoughts were not quite as glum as they had been that night, right after the first shock and devastation… and, frankly, fear for his life. In the bright light of day, Steve had mulled it over, had processed everything to focus on a solution, and he was determined not to give up until he had found one.

What was difficult was to find the right moment to talk about it  with Bucky. When he came back into the living room, after having folded away the laundry, he found him sitting on the window nook Steve took his spot on the couch and turned towards him. “Do you… want to talk about it?” he asked gently after a few moments of silence between them and Bucky not even having acknowledged his presence with a glance.

The long moments of silence that followed told him that the answer was no. The only way Steve knew that Bucky was with him at all was that he saw his jaw clenching. “I should leave.”

Steve had prepared himself for Bucky suggesting this sooner or later, but when the words actually came it was like nothing he could have anticipated. His chest clenched and his throat constricted, and for a moment that was much too long, he found himself unable to bring up any of the arguments he had often laid out for this scenario.

“Bucky…” was all that came over his lips.

“I could go through with it next time,” the other man said flatly, still staring fixedly straight out of the window. “I’d never forgive myself for that.”

Steve understood where Bucky was coming from. Still, he found himself shaking his head, despite his fears last night not wanting to even think about such a possibility now. “Bucky, please. You… If you leave, I… I’ve lost you twice before, three times if you count the weeks I was looking for you after what happened in April. I…” His chest tightened further, and he cursed himself for how weak his own voice sounded when he needed it to be vehement and convincing. “I can’t do that again. I can’t lose you.”

Bucky’s hands were curling, clenching in his lap, and he lowered his head, visibly struggling to keep the expression on his face impassive.

“I’m… I’m sorry. But we should have known this was never going to work.”

“Bullshit, Bucky.” It might just have been Steve’s luck that he let his anger win over the helplessness that had threatened to take over. He got up from the couch and walked closer to Bucky who stared back at him in momentary surprise.

“Yes, what happened last night was scary for the both of us, I admit that. And it definitely means things are not all fine, but that doesn’t mean it has to be like that forever. That there are no solutions. So let’s talk about them. Don’t just go and throw everything away. Please,” he ended, voice gentler but still insistent.

Bucky’s expression closed off and he let himself drop back onto his feet, standing right in front of Steve.

“Of course you’d think it’s bullshit, that’s so very you. But you see, Steve? It’s not bullshit, and it’s _naive_ of you to think that. I’m supposed to remember, but for every good thing that came back at first, now there are two things catching up with me that I’d have rather left buried right where they were. I don’t know how to be any of those things you want me to be, it’s just not there! If you want me to be your soldier, then keep me, I can be that. It’s what I know, what I'm good at, but everything else is wishful thinking, they took everything else out of me!”

Steve stared at Bucky in disbelief. For the first time he actually thought - if only for a second - that Bucky might be right. That maybe the person he once had been was gone. But then Steve shook his head, remembering all the times Bucky himself had proven his own words wrong. “No. You’re confused, Bucky, and I get it. I’m sure I’d be frightened and bitter, too, if I was in your shoes. But you’ve still got it wrong. You _saved_ my life, have you forgotten that? I was your mission, and still you defied those that wanted to control you even before you really started getting your memories back. Because you--” Bucky’s jaw clenched and he threw his hands up in utter frustration, trying to walk past Steve, but he wouldn’t let him. Blocking his path with his own body, he lifted both hands but didn’t touch Bucky just yet.

He took a deep breath, fighting briefly against the scratching pressure that was still present in his throat after last night. “You made the right decision because, even then, there was something of the real you left inside. Despite all their efforts, that was one thing they could never take away from you completely. So don’t give up now and be what they tried to make you. Because that’s _not_ who you are. I know that. I know _you_.”

He could see it on Bucky’s expression, the way he closed his eyes and tried to take a calming breath, that his stubbornness was wearing him thin just like it used to do back in a different world when, faced with the impossible task of changing Steve’s mind,  Bucky would have just given up in frustration.

“Steve,” Bucky said eventually, actually sounding exhausted. “That… all sounds really nice. And I wish I could believe it.”

“Then do,” Steve replied. “Believe in yourself like I believe in you. And that, by the way, has nothing to do with me wanting you to be the old you,” he added. They had discussed this before, but it still seemed difficult for Bucky to accept it. “You may never be the same person you were, but that’s okay. I don’t need you to be, I don’t want you to pretend. I want you to be you and figure out what you want, and I’ll do everything I can to help you get there. But if you don’t believe that you can do it or that, I don’t know, you don’t deserve it, then it means Hydra has won. Don’t let them, Bucky.”

He could watch Bucky’s expression changing as he spoke, how he looked like a headache was rapidly hitting him. He gave a tiny shake of his head and then brushed past Steve as if he felt cornered. His assumption proved right when Bucky didn’t retreat more than a few steps, just needing space to pace, looking unsettled and on edge.

Steve knew, somewhere far in the back of his mind, that he was also being egoistic in this. That, yes, the thought of seeing Bucky leave, not knowing whether he’d ever see him again, was killing him. But he was also sure that it would not do Bucky any good either. Where would he go? And what would he do with his life if he didn’t try to get it back on track now?

“Bucky,” he said softly, resisting the urge to cross the distance between them and touch him for comfort - or seek it himself. “Please think about it. Do yourself that favour.” _Do me that favour_.

Bucky looked torn even as he glowered at him. He was furious, just as he had been on that Helicarrier when Steve had put his whole world upside down. His jaw was working and he took deep, slow breaths. He finally broke their gaze with a growl full of frustration, and Steve had the vague feeling that he had just won.

He let out a breath he hadn’t even been aware of holding. Suddenly feeling exhausted, he went to sit back down on the couch, looking back up at Bucky and hoping he was willing to talk about it all some more. To figure out a solution. Steve knew what he’d like to suggest but he didn’t want to spring it  on Bucky when he was still so agitated.

He was pacing again, though less frantically now, looking a little more settled. He dragged one hand through his hair as he spoke up again.

“You goddamn stubborn optimist. God, Steve.”

Steve could only let out a small chuckle after that, though it was hardly a joyous one.

Bucky sighed, his hands flexing. “If I stay, things need to change.”

Steve nodded at him. “You’re going back to sleeping on the couch, I guess.” As much as he hated the thought of not having Bucky close - of not even knowing whether the whole thing that had been set in motion between them was put on a complete halt for now, or ever - it was probably for the best. The chances that another violent flashback dream would have Bucky sleepwalk through the apartment, into Steve’s bedroom and do something similar to what he’d done last night were pretty much non-existent.

Bucky nodded, seemingly a bit relieved that Steve didn’t fight him on this. But it looked like he wasn’t done yet, though he struggled with the next words. “You said there are people who know what to do with these things. To talk to. And you said you can be sure they have no Hydra connections. How?”

“Natasha mentioned someone she trusts. I’d have to ask her again,” Steve replied, relieved that Bucky brought this up on his own. “I know it seems risky, but a lot of Hydra’s records have been released into the public domain. We can check them in detail and make sure.”

Bucky gave a jerky nod, and then was quiet for a few moments. “I want to talk to Natasha.”

The small smile that spread on Steve’s lips felt a little bit more genuine now. “Sure. I can call her right now if you like.”

He only received another nod in reply.

 

***

 

It had been a great fortune that Natasha was still in D.C. Just about an hour after he had called her, she was was standing at his door, and Steve let her in with a small sense of nervousness, fearing that every passing minute could give Bucky a reason to change his mind.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” he said after greeting her. As he let her into the apartment he saw the curious expression on her face change into one of alarm.

“Jesus, Steve,” Natasha cursed quietly, taking a step closer to him and raising a hand to the collar of his shirt.

The pang of shock made Steve’s heart beat faster, and he automatically reached up to his neck to where the slowly receding bruise was still swollen. He had completely forgotten about that. “I’m okay,” he said quickly, cursing the fact that he hadn’t thought about covering it up with a high-collar hoodie. He really didn’t want to add to Bucky’s agony by having her speculate on what must have happened. Or how it could have come to that.

Her eyes raised to meet his then, and there was reproach in them, but Natasha didn’t say anything. She lightly slapped his hand away to have that look at his throat, calmly now, and he waited in vain for any kind of ‘I told you so’.

“It’s fine,” he repeated somewhat testily nevertheless, having lowered his voice to something barely above a whisper. “It wasn’t his fault. It was a flashback.”

“I know,” she replied quietly and looked into Steve’s eyes again, before taking a step back and waiting for him to lead her into the living room.

Bucky had, again, retreated to his favourite spot when Steve and Natasha walked in.

“Want anything to drink?” Steve asked, wondering whether he should simply leave them to talk alone.

“I like those espressos your machine makes,” she replied, giving him a small smile that was, maybe, meant to relax him. Her next gaze went over to where Bucky was sitting, and Steve watched them look at each other for a moment, before she finally said, “Hello Bucky.”

She received a greeting nod in reply, and Bucky turned towards them, his feet sliding soundlessly down to the floor.

“Want one too?” Steve asked, already heading towards the kitchen. Considering he had only slept a few short hours he could use a boost of caffeine, as well.

“Yeah. Thanks,” he heard Bucky’s reply, and then slight shuffling as Natasha sat down on the couch, deliberately so, Steve suspected, to further relax the mood.

He went to prepare three double espressos, noticing that neither Bucky nor Natasha said a single word the entire time. He was starting to wonder whether it had been such a good idea after all, whether Bucky was even prepared to speak about something so personal to someone he didn’t really know. It had been difficult enough for him to open up to Steve in the first place.

When he returned to the living room he put the cups on the coffee table and gave Bucky a gentle, inquiring look. “Do you want me to stay here, or…”

“No, it’s fine,” Bucky replied instantly, his voice much calmer now than it had been during their discussion. He glanced over at Steve as he spoke, to let him know that he really meant it. “Don’t worry.”

“Okay then.” Steve smiled at Bucky despite the worry he was still feeling. “I’ll be in the bedroom. Got a few things to sort through,” he said, taking his coffee and a pile of unopened letters with him.

Natasha was good at this sort of thing. And Bucky wanted this, he had to remind himself as he closed the door behind him.

 

***

 

As soon as the door clicked shut, Bucky took a slow breath and sat down on the other end of the couch, folding one leg under him and turning to face Natasha. The cup was hot in his hands, but smelt good and familiar, and he struggled to find words to start with.

He didn’t know whether Natasha had sensed it or just spoken first in pure coincidence, but her reluctance to let the silence linger did relieve him of his unease. “She’s one of the few people I really trust.The therapist I’d mentioned to Steve,” she said, holding Bucky’s gaze. “And even if that may not be a general guarantee, her mother being a Holocaust survivor makes it even less likely for her to have any affiliations to an organisation with Nazi origins. I guess that’s part of what you’re worried about.”

She hit the nail on the head with that one. Bucky nodded slowly, not seeing any point in denying it.

“You talked to her? Regularly?”

Natasha nodded and put her coffee cup back down onto the table. “One of SHIELD’s conditions for me joining. I didn’t feel I actually needed it at the time, but today I’d say I was probably wrong about that.” The corners of her mouth quirked upwards ever so slightly as she looked at Bucky, gaze soft. “She helped me with a few things I hadn’t even realised were a problem. She made it easy for me to trust her, which, if you know anything about my story, wasn’t a frequent occurrence.”

He knew enough, so he nodded again, raising the cup to his lips to take a small sip. “I remember you. From… before,” Bucky said eventually, slowly, gaze resting on the necklace she was wearing before it flickered down to the side of her stomach. He remembered firing the bullet that had gone through it. “I don’t know when or where, the details are blurry. Just… same red hair. That was you.”

Natasha looked at him for a long moment before she replied. “Yeah, it was. You left a lasting impression, too.”

Bucky nodded slowly, defiance rising in him and mixing to the guiltiness it found there. But he swallowed both down and said what he had wanted to say. “I want to apologise.”

She shook her head instantly, lifting a hand. “No need. You did what you thought you had to do. I know what that’s like.”

His gaze rose back up to her face then, and Bucky wondered. There were details swimming around in his head about her, information that he wasn’t sure was entirely correct.

“Still. There aren’t many people left I can apologise to.”

She looked at him for a few long moments again, her gaze an unreadable stare that made it easy to guess why she was so good at what she was doing. Then, with the hint of a tiny smile, she went on. “I’d been walking down a pretty bloody road for many years. I can’t say that’s something you ever forget. But you can learn to live with it and… make amends. Deborah Sanders was was one of the people who helped me believe that. Helped me believe in myself.”

It was hard to even consider the thought that it could be the same for him. Bucky didn’t believe that, at least not yet. But he wasn’t going to stay under the same roof as Steve and do nothing to prevent what happened last night  from repeating. Maybe Natasha really was the one person that could really relate to him.

“How does it work?”

She let out a soft chuckle, shrugging her shoulders. “I suppose that’s different for everyone. Basically you talk to her. She asks the right questions. Nudges you in the right direction here and there and you end up wondering why you hadn’t thought of that yourself. Sounds a bit too simple when I put it like that, I know, but… You’ll see.”

Talk… Bucky didn’t know if he could do that. He couldn’t even talk to Steve, how was he supposed to talk to a woman he had never seen before in his life, and trust her with things that were still a confused mess in his mind? But he didn’t really have a choice. He didn’t want to leave and he couldn’t stay without doing anything.

So Bucky just nodded again, absently flexing the fingers of his metal hand, unsure what else to say.

“I already called her,” Natasha said after a long pause. “She’d take you if you want to go see her. She retired to the country a few years ago. It’s a one-hour drive from here up North. You just have to say when.”

Bucky took a deep breath, pushing every doubt away, and straightened his back . “As soon as possible.”

Instead of replying, Natasha just got out her cellphone, quickly typing a message on it. Barely a minute later, it buzzed. A smile on her lips, she looked back up at Bucky.

“How does today sound to you?”

 

***

 

They had borrowed Nat’s car to drive north, a long hour with only the thrum of the engine between them. Though Bucky’s gaze went out his window for most of the drive, Steve’s presence next to him was impossible to ignore and it managed to make him relax a bit.

It was a nice neighbourhood they eventually arrived in, trees by the side of the street here and there, nice houses, properly tended gardens in lush colours. To say he felt out of place was an understatement.

Deborah Sanders was a woman in her late sixties still bearing herself straight and composed, with slate grey hair , a wrinkled but expressive face, and sharp grey eyes. The welcome she gave them was understated but warm, immediately inviting them into her living room and asking if they wanted a cup of green tea.

Bucky’s discomfort only grew, but he took the offered seat on the couch along with Steve and quietly took in the surroundings. Old-fashioned and rustic furniture, dark wood, light walls, many potted plants and flowers. Movement caught his attention from the corner of his eye, and when he looked, he caught the sight of the hind legs and tail of a cat vanishing around a corner.

Dr Sanders had taken the seat opposite them in a large wingback chair, holding her own cup of tea in her hands, making it seem like this was just a friendly conversation. “So what brings you here?”

Bucky frowned slightly, glancing briefly over at Steve. He had thought Natasha had told her what this was about. But Steve didn’t seem to know what to say either, looking back and forth between the therapist and Bucky.

“I believe there is a reason you wanted to speak with me, James. Miss Romanoff has given me a bit of information, but it’s important you tell me what you’d like me to do for you.”

His reaction was instant, and entirely surprising to himself once he was aware of it.

God, he still hated that name.

“I, ah... “ He struggled for a couple of seconds, then set his jaw and looked over at her. “I didn’t know what else to do. Steve and Natasha said it should help.”

“Well, I’m inclined to agree with them,” she said with a good-natured smile. Her gaze, however, rested on him inquiringly, and he already felt like she was expecting a more detailed answer. When it didn’t come, she leaned back in her chair.

“When getting to know each other at the beginning of therapy, it is quite important for the patient, for you, to put into words what precisely made them take that step. Encouragement from others is a good motivator, and sometimes it can help to have a close friend or partner present during the initial sessions or later on. Do you want Steve to stay here while we get to know each other?”

Before Bucky could answer, Steve turned to look at him and said, faintly, “It’s okay. Whatever you prefer.”

Bucky realised that his heart rate was accelerating. He really didn’t want to talk about any of this. And even less did he want to do it with Steve there to hear, because whatever good he still saw in him, perception skewed by memories of the man he had known, would surely waver and maybe vanish then.

He glanced over at Steve reluctantly, not sure how to tell him any of that.

It was as if Deborah had read his inner turmoil - at least that was a sign that she was adept in her job. She gave Steve a warm smile. “You couldn’t have picked a nicer day to come out here. Maybe you’d like to go for a walk in the woods for a while? There’s a small lake about hundred yards to the west. You can come back in about an hour. If that’s all right with both of you,” she ended, looking at Bucky again.

He felt relief for a moment, breathing out quietly. And, looking away from Steve, he nodded.

Steve returned the nod and, taking a last small sip of his tea, got up to head towards the entrance. “Okay…” Obviously unsure of what else to say he just gave both of them a small smile, lifted his hand in a hint of a wave and left.

“So,” Deborah said quietly, hands folded in her lap.

Bucky didn’t react for a few moments, even though he was grateful for what she had just done. But this… this was hard.

“Thank you,” was what eventually made it over his lips.

Deborah didn’t reply, only studied him intently with that ever-present smile on her lips that seemed to prompt him to say more. However, when his discomfort grew, she broke the silence again.

“Let me tell you right from the beginning that there is nothing you _have_ to tell me. You alone determine the extent of what you want to share. I’d just like to ask you to be open and honest from the start. If you feel uncomfortable about anything, please tell me. If you want Steve to be here, tell me. If you want to end the session or change the topic, tell me. If you want to know something, ask. Now, as for how we start, I understand it’s not easy. Starting is hard for everyone. It might help if you were to tell me a bit about your current situation, first.”

Bucky didn’t know what he had expected, but it hadn’t been this. He glanced up at her, really looked at her, a faint sliver of relief running through him at the reassurance. He _wanted_ this to work, that wasn’t the problem. Had never been.

He swallowed hard and dropped his gaze again.

“I almost killed him.”

The smile faded from her lips, but there was no shock visible on her features, just a trace of compassion in her eyes. She leaned forward in her seat. “Do you want to tell me how?”

Bucky stayed very still, only his right hand rubbing against the metal of his other. Sign of anxiety, he knew that much.

“I have… I dream. Have trouble shaking them off sometimes, don’t know what’s real and what’s not. See things that aren’t there. Tried to choke him.”

“What made you stop?” she asked bluntly, and Bucky glanced down at his hands.

“Realising it was him.” Not Zola.

“Whom did you want to choke?”

He could feel a frown flickering over his features. Hands balling to fists.

“Someone from Hydra.”

There was silence between them for a few moments, and Deborah leaned back in her chair again, taking up her tea cup to sip on it. It got to the point where it just so started to get awkward before she spoke up again. “What you experienced is very common, James. Particularly war veterans are prone to violent episodes when the memory of traumatic events is triggered in their sleep. Our dreams let our subconscious come to the surface. So the goal is to uncover the things buried underneath and learn to cope with them. It’s a process that will require some work and patience, but it’s nothing that can’t be done.”

Bucky didn’t exactly feel like much about him was common, no matter how much he’d have liked that. But this was his only option right now, and so he could only hope that she was right.

“And all you need me to do is talk?”

She gave him a small shrug, inclining her head. “It’s the major part, yes. There are other things we can work out for you. There are relaxation techniques that are useful to apply before sleeping to avoid these episodes from happening. Establishing a daily routine that works well for you, which should include physical activities if you’re not doing that yet. It is also helpful for you to find a balance in that and to engage in things that make you feel good, actively seek them out.”

Things that made him feel good… He tried that thought on his tongue, tasted it, wondered. There wasn’t much that came to his mind.

“I just need to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“All right, we will work on that,” she said, and it almost seemed like she was discarding the topic for the moment. “But first,” she went on as she reached for a notebook and pen on the coffee table, “perhaps you could tell me a bit about your current situation and your everyday life.”

That, finally, wasn’t so hard.

 

***

 

On their way home, Steve was mostly quiet. Before their departure, he had exchanged a few pleasantries with Deborah - mostly commenting on the beautiful scenery surrounding her house - but other than that he hadn’t said much. When they had parked the car outside and walked up into his apartment, he only sent a brief smile in Bucky’s direction, and it wasn’t difficult to guess that Steve was tip-toeing around him again, as he often did, not wanting to be pushy, even if Bucky could very well see the wheels rattling with questions behind that slightly furrowed forehead.

“She’s nice, don’t you think?” he finally asked, tone casual, as he went over to the kitchen and opened a bottle of spring water.

“She’s different,” Bucky replied, sliding onto the high chair by the breakfast bar and watching Steve for a moment.

“Hm,” Steve mumbled, looking at Bucky with an inquiring gaze, but he dropped it a second after and got out a second water bottle. “Thirsty?”

“Just spit it out,” Bucky said instead of answering the question, almost rolling his eyes. “You’re making my skin crawl.”

“Sorry,” Steve replied instantly. “Well, I was wondering… what did you talk about? How did it go?”

If he was honest, Bucky didn’t really know how it had gone. He shrugged slowly.

“About… daily routine, mostly. She took notes.”

“Ah, okay.” Steve said, falling silent for a few moments after that. “So… do you think it’ll help?”

“Absolutely no clue,” Bucky said, maybe a bit too honest, and looked up into Steve’s face.

It had obviously not been the response he had hoped for. Bucky could see the small smile falter as he tried to work out what he could say or ask next.

“But you want to go again?”

He didn’t have to think about his answer even for a moment. He still saw no other option, and though Bucky wasn’t looking forward to potentially talking about things he’d rather have left buried, he could take that.

“I will.”

“Good,” said Steve, the smile returning to his features. “I’m glad. And… you know, not because of me but because I want you to feel better.”

Bucky could feel the corners of his mouth twitching weakly, and maybe for the first time after what had happened the night before, he could look at Steve openly again.

“Yeah. I know.”

Steve’s smile turned a little brighter, too.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky discovers some things take more time than he hoped for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we said, it took a bit longer for us to update, but here's the next chapter now. Our lovely beta-reader was busy with our other project and, more importantly, a uni exam, but she'll continue working on the following chapters now, which mean's we'll update again as soon as she's finished chapter 18. Please be patient.  
> And thanks again for the lovely comments! We hope you'll enjoy this chapter as well. If there's anything you'd like to say or ask please do so. :)

Three days later, Bucky was sitting on the already familiar couch, a steaming cup of tea in front of him. Although the weather was not as pleasant as it had been last time, gray clouds overhead, Steve had left them alone again and gone for a walk.

“So, James, how have you been?” Deborah asked. The small, red notebook already lay in her lap, though it remained unopened for the moment.

It was an odd thought, that she should take notes on his life.

Bucky put a hand on the back of his neck, rubbing slowly. “Why do you call me that?” he asked eventually, instead of answering her question.

It was the first time she showed a little bit of surprise on her features in his presence. Her brows went up in question. “James is your name, isn’t it? I felt that nicknames might be a bit too intimate for the beginning. But if you prefer that I can call you Bucky.”

He honestly didn’t know what he preferred. It all sounded foreign to him, but maybe that was because she really was still a stranger to him, and he wasn’t used to anybody but Steve addressing him with a name at all. So he shrugged slowly, gaze on the tea cup in his hand.

“I don’t know.” It was all Bucky could think of.

She looked at him patiently, waiting whether he might continue or not. When he didn’t, Deborah went on again. “I will call you whatever you want me to, of course. Mr. Barnes, as well, if you’d feel more comfortable with that.”

For a moment he really didn’t know what to say to that. The only other person who really called him by name was Steve. He knew, somehow, that in the past - in another life - people had always called him Bucky because, he suspected, he just hadn’t liked James. He still didn’t. But she was right: it was strange, at least for now, to have her use the same name that he had gotten so used to hearing from Steve.

“James is fine,” he eventually relented quietly.

“All right,” she said and took a sip of her tea. “Have you thought about what I asked you to?”

Bucky had tried. But the list of things that made him happy right now was pitifully short, and they all revolved around Steve. He had to admit that was a little pathetic.

He raised the cup and cradled it against his collar so that he could soak in its scent, and tried to think of something more to say.

“I…”

This was terrible. Bucky took a deep breath.

“There’s a window nook, back at the apartment, a wide one. The windows in that row are sticking out. I like sitting there. I… the… this,” he eventually managed, half raising the cup before cradling it again, thinking he probably just sounded really awkward right now. “I like the smell. Of… coffee. Meals, anything. Sandwiches… herbs… garlic. Anything.”

The tiny smile usually on Deborah’s lips turned into quite a radiant one and she nodded in acknowledgement. “That’s good. Garlic… really?” She chuckled. “Most people I know hate the scent of garlic. I kind of like it quite a lot myself though. Garlic bread the most.”

Bucky caught himself smiling a little in return, shrugging again. He couldn’t understand what people didn’t like about it. “When it’s roasting.”

He honestly wasn’t sure where that liking even came from. Maybe because he couldn’t really remember eating from before. Or eating anything that really tasted good.

“Mhm.” She nodded again. “Well, this is good. Little things that make us happy and relaxed are very important. Is there anything else you can think of? Maybe something slightly bigger? And, this list is mainly for yourself. So if you can add anything that you don’t feel like sharing, just think of it. It would also help you to write all of these things down so you can revisit the list when you’re doubtful.”

Bucky’s gaze flickered down to the coffee table between them, tracing the outlines of the cookies on the plate there. Something slightly bigger was easy.

“Steve,” he said.

“Good.” Another nod and warm smile, then she got up from the armchair and walked over to an antique looking bureau, opening one of the drawers and coming back towards him with a dark blue notebook, the same size as her red one. “I’d really like you to write that and everything else you can think of down. I always find these small notebooks very handy. You can carry that around wherever you go.”

Bucky glanced up at her in slight confusion. “Right now?”

“Well, I do hope you still remember all of those things in an hour or two, so there’s no need,” she replied. “Whenever you want to.”

Bucky nodded, a little relieved, and let his fingertips trail over the spine of the book. He actually would prefer a bit of privacy for that.

“Thank you.”

After she took her seat again Deborah’s expression turned a little bit more serious. “How have you been sleeping?”

Bucky could feel himself tensing a little. It took him a few moments to reply, again having to remind himself that he should really talk to her, and not just shrug it off. It wasn’t the honesty that came hard to him, but to talk about these things at all.

“Not much,” he eventually replied with a small, entirely humorless grimace that could have been a smile.

“And why is that?” she asked, though he was quite certain she could guess. But saying everything out loud was the point of it all, so he took a few long moments again to figure out how to put his thoughts into words.

“I hate it,” he eventually said, followed by a soft, small huff. “I hate the dreams. I hate waking up and not knowing where I am. Going to sleep and not knowing when I might wake up again. Losing--”

Whatever grasp on himself he had while he was awake.

Bucky swallowed and shook his head.

“How many hours do you usually sleep before you wake up from such a dream or feeling of disorientation?”

He frowned, needing to think on that before he could find any kind of answer. “I don’t know… Three hours, maybe four?”

“Yes, that’s not much,” she said. “Are you able to go back to sleep afterwards?”

Bucky kept his gaze on the table. He fought it, knew it was irrational, but there was that faint feeling of apprehension in his chest. Of having done something wrong.

“… sometimes.”

“As I told you, there are techniques to empty your mind before you go to sleep. You can also learn to control your dreams, which is a bit more complicated than that. We could practice these techniques together.” She seemed to ponder her own words for a moment, gaze lowered and brow furrowed slightly. “Did you have any flashbacks since our last session?”

That, at least, was easier to answer.

“Nothing major,” Bucky replied, finally bringing the cup to his lips to take a sip. “Just small things. Like déjà-vus.”

“Hm, yes. Some of the things you are remembering are things you do want to remember. The secret is to tell them apart and prevent the traumatic memories from surfacing unless you have control of the situation. Do you feel you have control now and could revisit one of your bad memories with me? Perhaps one of the less frightening ones, for a start.”

The tension was back, sitting in his muscles, clenching his stomach and tightening his throat. “Like what?”

“You can try to pick something you think you can handle right now. Something that was unpleasant to remember, maybe caused you to wake up at night and feel confused, but for the moment nothing that caused you extreme distress,” she replied, but Bucky knew that any of the things that were bad enough to wake him up at night were hard to think about in any case.

He forced himself to breathe calmly, to relax his toes that had started to curl painfully, and try to think of anything.

His mind felt painfully blank.

Eventually he told her, haltingly and hesitantly, hand clenched around the cup, how Zola had liked to listen to classical music while he had sat next to him, documenting effects and changes of whatever he had last injected him with. Bruckner, mostly. Strauss, sometimes. His heart was hammering with every word as she asked him if he could close his eyes and imagine what he told her about. He succeeded for all but twenty seconds before he shook his head and got up, unable to sit, dizzy and nauseous, needing to lean against a window sill and stare outside until breathing became easier.

The rest of the session was spent with coping techniques, simple breathing and relaxation exercises that hardly seemed to work after the both emotionally and physically exhausting first experiment. And when the hour was finally over, Bucky could hardly concentrate on what she had assigned to him for the next time - something about ways to ground him in reality if felt a flashback hit him.

He could only really breathe when he stepped outside and felt Steve’s shoulder brush his, and in that moment he didn’t want to ever go back.

Three days later, however, found him sitting on that couch again. They tried it one more time, with the same memory, and even though it went a little better, Bucky was exhausted by the time he could stuff it back into a dark corner of his mind.

Was this really supposed to make anything better? He had no idea how.

Deborah was quiet for a while after they had finished what she had explained was called exposure therapy, and Bucky guessed it was either her way of coaxing him to say something or giving him room to calm down.

Eventually, she spoke, her tone calm and professional. “You definitely made some progress just now, James, and I’m confident you’ll continue to do so. However, I have the impression that you’re being somewhat impatient with yourself.”

Bucky let out a breath in a wordless admission of guilt. He probably didn’t have to tell her for her to know that, with the memory of what had happened, it was impossible for him to relax at night.

Deborah leaned forward to look him in the eye more firmly. “You shouldn’t expect miracles within a few weeks. Allow me to me make an educated guess: one of the reasons why you’re not sleeping well and you’re so impatient with yourself is because you’re afraid of harming Steve again. Is that correct?”

Bucky made himself hold her gaze, some part of him relieved that she did prove to be spot on about that.

“Yes,” he replied, feeling chilly despite the warm summer air.

“And the fact that you aren’t sleeping well contributes to your high levels of stress which makes it easier for negative thoughts to stir at night.” Her tone was calm, even sympathetic, lacking the admonishment the words could have contained. “James, you should understand - and I hope that you will - that the reason for you coming here shouldn’t only be you wanting to keep Steve safe. The main reason should be you wanting to feel and do better for your own benefit, first and foremost.”

Bucky could only look at her. Steve had said something very similar, but the effect had been the same: he had nodded, but the words hadn’t reached anything in him. And he knew why, it had taken him long nights to figure it out.

He clenched his jaw and forced himself to keep looking at her.

“I don’t know how to want things for myself.”

Deborah nodded slowly, her look full of sympathy but also - if Bucky wasn’t imagining it - approval. “That is another thing you should try to figure out,” she said. “I have an offer, something I think could make things a lot easier for you.”

Biting down briefly on the inside of his lower lip, Bucky remained silent, and listened.

 

***

 

Once again the drive home - this and the last time in Sam’s car - had been very quiet. Steve couldn’t quite figure out whether Bucky was simply pensive or outright shaken to silence by whatever he had talked about with Dr. Sanders. _A penny for your thoughts,_ Steve would like to say, but the price seemed a lot higher than that.

Maybe Steve was being overcautious with Bucky, maybe he should simply ask him every question he’d been asking himself. But the last thing Steve wanted to do was pressure Bucky into conversations he wasn’t comfortable having - not when those he did have during his sessions with Dr. Sanders already seemed to wear on him. He would just have to sit it out, wait, be there if Bucky wanted to talk and in the meantime do everything he could to make his life a little brighter.

“Are you hungry yet?” he asked when they arrived home just after half past five that afternoon. “Because… I may have a little surprise for you.”

His words drew Bucky’s gaze to him, but the look in his eyes was wary, as if unsure what to make of that.

“What kind of surprise?” he eventually asked after a few seconds.

“I… give me a minute,” Steve said with what he hoped didn’t look like a fake smile before he went into the kitchen. Opening the fridge door, he was glad for the chance to hide his face from Bucky’s glance while he collected himself. He had really hoped they could spend a nice evening together, relax a bit, talk about mundane things and enjoy themselves as they had done before - if not very frequently. But ever since that incident they hardly seemed to be able to get to anything beyond brief and mostly meaningless conversations.

Taking a deep breath and putting his smile back on - trying to actually feel instead of faking it - he looked back at Bucky. “I had to check if it was there, but looks like it is,” he said and took a big casserole with the lasagna he had Natasha bring him while they had been gone. “How’s that look?”

Something flickered over Bucky’s face that was hard to place, especially since it was gone in the blink of an eye. But after a moment of glancing between the lasagna to Steve and back, he could see the hint of a smile curl around Bucky’s lips.

“Like dinner.”

“Well, I was hoping you’d say something like ‘impossibly delicious, Steve’ but fair enough,” he said, mild disappointment masked with the joking smirk on his face. “Natasha told me of this really good restaurant, so I asked if they could make a lasagna to finish at home. Nat went to pick it up for us earlier. Should take about forty minutes to cook.”

“Alright,” he got Bucky’s agreement, and for a moment it was quiet between them as Steve went to put the lasagna into the oven.

“Steve?” Bucky asked, and Steve glanced back to him, finding Bucky’s eyes still on him. His voice was quiet as when he continued after a brief moment, “Thanks… It really does look good.”

He could feel the corners of his mouth curl into a more genuine smile now, the heavy feeling in his heart fading into one of warmth and affection. For a moment, Steve wanted nothing more than to put his arms around Bucky and hold him. But that, too, had become more difficult lately.

“I hope it tastes as good as it looks,” he replied instead.

“We could always order pizza. But I’d have to have a word with Natasha about her recommendations,” Steve said, and the corners of Bucky’s lips twitched as he finally broke their gaze.

“I’m sure you won’t have to. I’ll… I’ll be in the bathroom for a bit.”

“Okay,” Steve replied and then set the alarm on his mobile to thirty minutes before he went to tidy the kitchen.

Bucky had been calm and pensive, but maybe things were really starting to pick up now. Therapy was supposed to help with that, wasn’t it, even if you couldn’t expect miracles within only a few days.

Steve had to admit to himself that he was a little curious about how it all worked, what precisely Bucky and Dr. Sanders talked about and how she helped him deal with his traumatic memories. Steve had read a bit about post traumatic stress disorder on the internet - marvelling again at the convenience of almost every fact under the sun being publically available, anytime and anywhere. However, reading about it still didn’t give him a complete grasp on how many of the described treatments actually worked. But of course, Steve also wouldn’t let himself be nosy about it.

After he had cleared the dishwasher and put away their plates from that morning’s breakfast, he decided to play some music, wondering for a moment whether he should simply turn on the radio or pick one of his many records and CDs. In the end, he decided on a mixed CD he had bought a while ago with some well-known hits of the 40s and 50s.

When Bucky emerged from the bathroom again, he was back to being quiet and withdrawn, as if there was something weighing on his mind. The alarm went off before the stretch of silence became all too long, however, and they found out that Natasha’s integrity regarding food recommendations remained very much intact.

“Oh, do you hear that?” Steve asked during their second helping of a very delicious lasagna, feeling a grin spread on his lips. “Cole Porter, _Friendship_. We used to listen to that song a lot.”

Bucky glanced up first at him, then at the stereo, and he looked bemused, but there was a small smile on his face as well. He listened for a few moments longer before commenting. “I suppose I can see why but… really?”

Steve smiled faintly as well, but his heart had started to thump faster in his chest, nervously hoping it would trigger at least some sense of familiarity in Bucky, if not a complete memory. It filled him with a strange mixture of warm reminiscence and sorrow for times long gone. "They... played that at a bar one evening. You got rather drunk and kept singing it the whole walk home."

Bucky lowered his cutlery at that, still with that look on his face. “Drunk,” he repeated then, like a concept he had trouble grasping. “Like that one night I remembered?”

“Yeah, you… did that sometimes,” Steve replied, a vague sense of amusement adding to the turmoil of emotions he was experiencing. With every passing moment of the song, the memory of that evening grew more vivid in his mind, and for a split-second he found himself wishing he could turn back time and stay right there forever. Life had been so easy, then. Despite all hardship, simpler and, in some ways, untroubled.

“Me too. We got drunk together sometimes, as was the fashion of our time,” he ended dryly.

Bucky looked at him for a few moments longer, but eventually glanced away and put the cutlery down next to what was left of his lasagna. He seemed to want to say something but appeared unsure how to put it into words. “Steve, we… We need to talk.”

Steve did not like the sound of that, not at all. His heart started beating faster, his chest felt tight and he had to force himself not to instantly imagine all sorts of horrible scenarios. “About what?”

“Dr. Sanders…” Bucky started, still not quite looking at him as he struggled for words. “She said something. She… had this proposition. An offer to…” His gaze flickered up to Steve for just a second before he averted it again. “She said I could stay with her. For a while.”

The quickened heartbeat remained for a moment, but Steve already felt relief wash over him, and he slowly breathed out through his nose. It could have been so much worse. Nevertheless Steve had to fight back the urge to want to disagree, at least in his mind, because he wanted Bucky to stay here with him. Wished, selfishly, that in the end his affection were what it took for Bucky to recover.

But that was a naive thought at best, he had to realise. "Okay. Do you want to do that?"

He didn’t receive an answer to that. Bucky was staring at the tabletop between them, unmoving for a few long moments until Steve could see him, at least, bite the inside of his lower lip.

Steve didn't know what exactly brought on that reluctance, whether Bucky wasn't convinced of the idea or simply didn't dare tell him. And that meant he found himself, once more, in the difficult position of having to try and figure it out for Bucky, hoping he was choosing right. "I think it's a good idea. She seems like she knows her job really well."

That did indeed bring Bucky’s attention back to him, and something washed over his face that Steve hadn’t meant to cause.

“You… want me to leave.”

Steve had to suppress a frustrated sigh, not quite sure whether he should be angry at himself for most likely just having said the wrong thing or, as much as he didn't want that, exasperated with Bucky for getting it so wrong. "No, of course I don't," he said, tone gentle nevertheless, and he followed an impulse as he reached over the table and took Bucky's right hand between both of his. "I'd miss you terribly, but if Dr. Sanders thinks it'll help you and if you want to do it then it doesn't matter what I want. Because what I want most is what's best for you, Buck."

The other man stared at him for a few long moments, then he seemed to deflate, eyes closing, and his free hand came up to cover his face. “Shit… I’m sorry. Sorry, that was just stupid…”

"A little bit, yeah," Steve replied but with warmth and adoration in his tone that he hoped Bucky caught, along with the smile on Steve's lips. "Really, I want you to do better. I want you to be happy. So whatever it takes, whatever you decide, I'm on board."

Despite the words Bucky’s face stayed hidden behind his hand for a few more moments, and the other, covered by Steve’s, didn’t move either. But eventually he rubbed his eyes and lowered it again.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said eventually, his voice small, and the ghost of a sad smile flickered over his face. “But I think I have to.”

Steve didn't know what to say to that, thinking that he knew quite well how Bucky must feel - then again not at all. "How long?"

“She said… maybe for two weeks, and see… see how it goes.”

"Okay, that's not so long," Steve replied with an encouraging smile, though he felt his heart ache at the thought of not seeing Bucky for two whole weeks. "It'll pass in no time, you'll see."

Bucky, however, looked rather unconvinced and tired. “Shit, Steve, I don’t even know her.”

"Then you'll get to know her," Steve replied, realising he probably should at least gently nudge Bucky in a direction that seemed to be good for him. "And if it doesn't work and you want to come back home you just have to call me, and I'll be there in an hour to pick you up."

That, at least, seemed to alleviate some of the concerns Bucky obviously had. Or rather, he was quiet after that, staring down at their hands, blinking slowly.

“I-I think I need sleep.”

It was still very early, and Steve found himself briefly frowning. However, he knew that Bucky had slept even less than he had in the past few days, so this was a good sign. "Then go. I can just go to the bedroom and read something."

Bucky was quiet again for a few long moments, but this time the fingers of his metal hand were fiddling.

“Can I…” he eventually said slowly, “ask you something?”

"Anything," Steve replied without hesitation, and it seemed to indeed relax Bucky at least a little, though he still didn’t look up.

“Can you stay? Not… Just in the armchair. You can watch TV, or anything, I don’t mind.”

"Okay, sure," Steve said, relieved that Bucky suggested this despite the distance they had kept since the incident. "Don't you worry, all right? I'll go to the bedroom before I fall asleep."

Bucky nodded, indeed looking relieved. “I’ll go to the bathroom…” he murmured then and got to his feet, his hand finally slipping out from under Steve’s.

When Bucky returned a few minutes later, Steve had already cleared away the dishes and was sitting in the armchair - which he might have pulled a bit closer towards the couch - a book in his hands which, according to many, was a must-read published after 1945. Bucky didn’t say anything at first. He just got his pillow and blanket and slipped onto the couch, still looking drained and uneasy despite the coziness.

“What are you reading?” he wanted to know after his gaze had rested on Steve for a few moments.

"Um... The Lord of the Rings," he said, lifting the one-volume edition to show Bucky the cover. "There was another book by the same author published in our time: The Hobbit. I read that." This time, he decided not to mention to Bucky that it had been he who had given Steve the book, nor ask him whether he remembered it. It didn’t look like he did, no reconnection visible on Bucky’s face.

“What’s it about?”

Steve had to laugh at that, not quite sure how to summarise the rather complex setup in a few sentences. "It's a huge fantastical adventure, with creatures called Hobbits. They're like humans, just smaller and with huge, hairy feet. There are also elves and dwarves. They made the book into movies, too."

Bucky, again, looked utterly bewildered. His lips were parted and for a moment it looked like he wanted to ask, but then decided against it.

“Is it good?”

"I've only read about ten pages, but going by The Hobbit it should be. It's also apparently one of the most popular books of the twentieth century. But well, that alone's not saying anything. The book that's been on the bestseller list for a year now or something had Natasha nearly tear down every bookstore in town."

At that, a small, already sleepy smile appeared on Bucky’s lips. “But she didn’t. Right?”

"No," Steve replied with a chuckle, remembering how, between a briefing and heading off for a mission, she had raged on about the stupidity of that book. "But she sounded very much like she'd have liked to. Said it was the most idiotic and badly written thing in history." He grimaced slightly at the memory, nonetheless amused.

“Why’s that?” Bucky murmured, his arms crossed in front of his chest now as he lay on his side, eyelids drooping.

"You can ask Nat next time she visits. I'm sure she'll be delighted to tell you everything she hates about it," he replied drily, but didn’t get an answer this time.

His gaze flickered over, and he saw that Bucky’s eyes had drifted shut, and it looked like sleep had caught up with him rapidly the moment he’d laid down.

Steve sat there and simply looked at Bucky for a long time, drinking in the sight.

"Sweet dreams," he eventually said softly and continued reading.


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a cat.

Bucky had never been as nervous about leaving the apartment as when it was time to go. Suddenly he was second-guessing everything. Agreeing to this in the first place and leaving that cocoon that had offered him some semblance of safety. It even went as far as doubting the whole idea of therapy. His body had simply clamped up at the thought of setting even one foot outside the door. Breathing had felt nearly impossible, and he had to sit back against the wall and bury his head in his arms and his knees to his chest to shut everything out for a moment, even flinching away from Steve’s worried touch.

It had taken almost an hour, Steve crouching in front of him, not touching, but trying to calm him with an incessant string of low, gentle words, until Bucky had been able to breathe freely again. He uncurled himself and reached for the other man, tangled his fingers in his shirt to pull him close enough to be able to bury his face against his chest and let the scent and the steady rhythm of Steve’s heartbeat under his ear do the rest.

He had been sitting there a while, a gentle hand brushing over the base of his spine, when he remembered why he had to do this, why he had agreed to it in the first place. Dr. Sanders had said that it was for himself as well. She had said a whole lot of things that he hadn’t dared to repeat to Steve because he hadn’t wanted to upset him; about the pressure of trying to be who Steve remembered but needing to find out who he really was now first, for himself. Maybe she’d had a point there, that this had been something that weighed on his whole body every time Steve looked at him with that hopeful expression whenever some old memory of their old lives came up. But the one, the real reason why he really _wanted_ to do this was to keep Steve safe, to never let something like those few nights ago happen again, no matter what anyone else thought.

So eventually they had left together, and he had spent the hour long drive anchoring himself to the feeling of the thrumming car engine and Steve’s fingers wrapped around his hand on the edge of Bucky’s seat.

When they arrived, his limbs felt like lead, heavy and weak at the same time, but he tried not to let Steve notice.

“Ah, hello, there you two are,” Deborah greeted them warmly, emerging from her country cottage and meeting them halfway at the driveway. “Come on in. I’ve made tea.”

“Thank you, Dr. Sanders,” Steve said, but the polite smile on his face was rather thin and, like most of the time since that morning, not quite reaching his eyes.

“Please, it’s Deborah or Deb. Dr. Sanders was my father,” she replied with a mild chuckle before she turned to Bucky, looking at him with her attentive, gray eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

He didn’t have the courage to tell her that he almost hadn’t. So he just shrugged, tongue feeling like it was glued to the insides of his mouth, and he immediately felt guilty for it. She was going through all that trouble, taking all that risk because she wanted to help him, and he couldn’t even give her a proper answer.

She gently put one hand on his back as she led them inside, Steve having quickly collected Bucky’s bag from the trunk.

he living room smelled pleasantly of fresh green tea and something that she must have baked recently, and Bucky could spot a large plate with brownies as well as three cups and a teapot on the coffee table as soon as they entered. “I hope you have time for a cup before you drive back home, Steve,” she said as she motioned for them to sit down.

Steve searched Bucky’s gaze before he replied with a yes, making it easy to guess that he wasn’t so keen on leaving immediately. Bucky nodded in relief right away. Nevertheless, he still wasn’t so sure if he wouldn’t panic at some point after all and ask Steve to take him back to the apartment.

It almost felt familiar already, however, to sit down on her couch with tea and freshly baked brownies. And maybe it was a personal talent or simply her professional expertise, but in the next quarter hour or so, Deborah somehow managed to lighten the mood, talking about what she had planned for dinner, what Bucky could help her with around the house - which had been the trade-off for her taking him in - and asked Steve about his favourite records. For a while, it felt like just a normal afternoon visit.

Until Deborah’s gaze, friendly but firm, landed on Bucky again. “Is there anything on your mind that you’d like to say, James?”

It brought him out of the circle of thoughts he had been stuck in, and he blinked, gaze instinctively going over to her. “Yes,” he said, surprising himself a little. But Bucky caught himself quickly enough to get out the next words as well. “Why are you doing this?”

Smiling close-lipped, she let out a brief huff of amusement, leaning forward in her armchair to look at him more closely. “Short answer: because I can. Long and completely honest one: you are very interesting to me, personally and professionally - probably one of the most interesting patients I’ve had in my entire career. So, aside from my wanting to help because that was the reason I chose this profession, I’m not being completely selfless here.” The smile on her lips widened. “And that garden shed could really use some repairs.”

Bucky just stared at her, at first entirely flabbergasted, then confused. She acted as if all that was so easy, like some basic, random exchange of goods or favours, as simple as paying for something in a store. It felt like she didn’t see the whole picture, and maybe she really didn’t, maybe Natasha hadn’t told her enough, maybe _he_ hadn’t told her enough.

“But…” he began, the confusion making it hard to wrap his lips and tongue around his thoughts. “Aren’t you afraid? I’m… dangerous.”

“God… Bucky,” he heard Steve sigh out next to him, and, as he turned to look, saw his face contorted with sympathy and sadness.

“I’m not afraid,” Deborah answered then. “Unless I have understood something wrong, Steve was in your direct vicinity when you attacked him in your sleep. I don’t see why there should be any danger for me if we sleep in two separate rooms and behind closed doors. But if it helps you to know me in safety, I will lock my door and you can lock yours as well and put the key in a drawer. That way, even _if_ you were sleepwalking, you’d have to remember where you put the key, first.”

The irrational part of him didn’t know what to do with that much sense for a moment. Bucky still felt that he had to protest, that this couldn’t be just it, couldn’t be enough, because, really, a locked door hadn’t been an obstacle for him for a long time… He grappled for words. “What if… if it happens during the day?”

“I highly doubt that. Firstly, it’s uncommon unless the patient shows severe signs of dissociation, which you clearly don’t. Secondly, we are going to work on how you can avoid triggers and keep your grasp on reality even better. I’ve had experience with violent patients, James, and you can believe me when I tell you that I see no indication of you being a threat to me, neither as your therapist nor as your host for as long as you are staying here.”

He was still feeling unsettled, the question hammering in his mind, _‘what if, what if, what if’_. But if she was so sure of this, what else could he say?

It was probably instinct to look over at Steve then, maybe get some support there, even though the rational part of his mind was laughing at him for it.

Steve returned his gaze as if he hadn’t even drawn it from Bucky for a second, that small, encouraging smile on his lips and his blue eyes full of the same sadness Bucky had seen in them so often now.

“It’ll be fine, you’ll see,” he said. “Nothing happened in all those nights you--” he stopped himself there, looking briefly at Deborah and back at Bucky, as if he didn’t quite dare speak on. “At the beginning.”

Well then, that probably settled it. Bucky could feel his shoulders slump, but if it was in defeat or relief he wasn’t sure. He just nodded and finally reached for his cup of tea, still hot enough for him to wrap his hand around it and concentrate on the warmth radiating from it.

It was quiet between the three of them for a little while until Deborah spoke up again. “Now that we’ve established everything I’d say it’s time for you to settle in. If you two want a moment to yourselves, I’ve got a few things to clean up in the kitchen.”

His heart immediately started hammering again, because that meant that Steve was indeed going to leave now. Bucky swallowed dryly and carefully looked over at the other man still by his side on the couch as Deborah retreated to the kitchen.

It was clear that it took Steve some effort to hide how difficult this was for him, too. He mostly failed at it. Turning towards Bucky, he seemed to hesitate, one arm moving up a fraction before his gaze lowered and his shoulders slumped somewhat. “I guess I should… You’ll do great, I’m sure. And you can call me any time if you want. Anytime, Bucky. Even if it’s in the middle of the night. And I’ll deal with that CIA lady if she comes by again. Don’t you worry about anything while you’re here.”

Bucky knew that Steve was entirely serious about this, and though he didn’t want to do that, to wake him up at any time at all, it still felt good to hear.

“Thanks,” he mumbled softly, chest feeling tight at seeing Steve like this. And though Bucky had no experience here, felt entirely, frighteningly out of his depth when it came to give comfort instead of… worse things, he couldn’t just sit there and stare either. So he tentatively shifted closer, turned his body towards Steve, slid one arm around his waist and tucked his head into the crook of Steve’s neck.

He could hear Steve inhale deeply, felt both his arms wrap around his back in a gentle but tight embrace. And they just sat there like that, holding each other for a long while. “I’m going to miss you,” Steve said softly, one hand now caressing the side of Bucky’s face, kissing Bucky’s hair.

He didn’t really want to open his eyes, having fallen too deeply into that still so foreign feeling of gentleness, but Bucky shook his head softly, voice only a murmur. “You’ll have time to yourself. Go out, do something fun. With Sam, or Natasha. Go… to a bar, or the cinema, or what people do these days. Take care of yourself for a change.”

Steve let out a huff of breath, that equally sad and touched smile on his face as he looked at Bucky again. “I will. I promise.”

His gaze trailed down to Bucky’s mouth for a moment before he leaned in for a gentle kiss.

It made something in Bucky’s stomach flutter, and his eyes simply fell shut again. He felt good and sad at the same time, a mix of emotions he didn’t know what to do with, and even though this wasn’t the first time, Bucky felt like it was for him, ridiculously like he had never kissed anyone before, as if he had no idea what to do.

The kiss was tender, no hunger driving either of them as they just relished those moments of closeness. But eventually, they parted and Steve smiled at him again.

“It’s only two weeks, it’ll pass in no time,” he said.

Nevertheless, that goodbye, those final moments until Bucky watched Steve drive down towards the main road left him feeling almost as lost as when he had walked the streets of D.C. with nowhere to go and only pieces of himself to follow.

 

***

 

Although still odd and unfamiliar, settling into his stay at Deborah’s was made as easy as possible for Bucky. They didn’t have another therapy session that first evening. Instead, they enjoyed a good meal together and talked a bit, but whenever Bucky remained quiet, Deborah gave him some room to adjust to the new circumstances.

The first night was exhausting. Bucky was too tense in the unfamiliar surroundings to even think of sleeping, afraid to wake up and not know where he was, to have more nightmares, to have them trigger another flashback and be stuck in it, afraid of what he might do then even though he had indeed locked the door of his room. He had spent hours pacing and then staring out of the window, to  make sure, irrationally, that no one was coming to take him back. It was only when he watched the sun rise and the sky turn golden red when he found some sense of calm.

He started his day with a forty-five minute run through the woods near the house and around the small lake since Deborah had recommended he tried to stick to a daily routine of activities. It was different, to be in the woods now instead of the city, but actually more relaxing since there were no people around this early, no one he had to avoid.

After lunch, they started their first proper therapy session with more exercises on how to recognise and avoid triggering elements and how to ground himself into reality. It had included finding various items that would occupy his senses, such as the scent of cinnamon, the taste of a slice of lemon or him describing to her in detail what he saw on her embroidered couch cushions, bookshelves and paintings. It had been difficult to imagine these simple exercises would help the next time Bucky actually found himself slipping from the here and now into parts of his past he did not want to remember. But Deborah had assured him that it would work, given time.

They talked about a few more things, but soon after, the details of it were already slipping from Bucky’s memory again. It was all so exhausting and wearing on his energies so much that the following night, he actually found himself falling asleep some time after midnight.

The next morning was spent nearly the same way as the previous: first a jog around the lake, shower, breakfast, some work in Deborah’s garden and on her shed before lunch. He knew that this was how he was essentially supposed to pay some kind of rent, but it was one more thing that was completely new to him. His fingers felt clumsy, not made for what he was trying to get them to do, but somehow he made it until lunch without embarrassing himself.

A while after that, they sat down for another session, as always with tea and some cookies. Bucky was slowly turning his cup around in his hands as he listened to her talk about all the mundane things they had already mentioned that could improve his overall well-being.

“You don’t think this is so important,” she stated after a moment’s pause. “You’d rather we use the time for our more in-depth topics.”

Her words made his head jerk up guiltily, and Bucky instinctively opened his mouth to deny them. Even though they might be true. “N-no, I… if you say this is important, then it probably is,” he admitted after licking his lips nervously.

“Hm…” She seemed to consider her response for a while, sipping on her own cup of tea. “James, it is important that you understand and want certain things for yourself. There is no use in me telling you what you should and could do if _you_ don’t think it’s a good idea. Because, you see, the aim of therapy is to work on both sides: figuring out how to deal with the bad and increasing the good, which often means having to change one’s view angle on all the neutral things, first. Does that make sense to you?”

He slowly turned the words over in his head to pick them apart, grateful that she didn’t push him into a reply but just waited until he had found his answer. Bucky nodded.

“Good,” she said with a small smile. “We will work on everything else, too, but this is an important aspect. So we’ve already talked about foods and drinks that you enjoy, you’ve established a workout routine for yourself. You’re taking good care of the needs of your body. How did you feel this morning after your run?”

“Good,” Bucky replied, even though he was aware that this kind of answer probably wasn’t helpful enough. So he tried to dig a bit deeper, gaze going down into his tea cup. “Energized. In… control.”

“That’s good,” she said and regarded him for a few moments. “Do you want to elaborate on that? The control part. The way you said it sounded like it’s particularly important to you.”

Of course it was important to him. Bucky didn’t need to think about that particular thing first to know it was true, and he suspected that Deborah knew that too. But he knew by now that simply knowing wasn’t enough here.

He found himself training his gaze on the cup he’d been turning slowly in his hands, finding it easier to look at it instead of her.

“I didn’t… exactly have a lot of that.” His own words made Bucky let out a soft breath like a small huff that lacked all amusement. “I think I didn’t… mind, not really, because there was just nothing else. Or… no, no, that’s not…” Bucky gave a frustrated sigh, one hand coming up to rub its heel over his brow. “I did. Mind. At least I think I did… some small part of me was always there that did. Or at least that felt… off.”

“What did you do then?” she asked, her tone calm as always. “When you felt that something was off?”

Bucky knew what he could say, maybe even what he _should_ say. The correct answer to that was ‘Nothing,’ because there had been nothing he’d been able to do. That part had been there, but for most of what he could remember, it was just like the words in his mind now: there, but unable to get past his lips, his throat closing up as though some other, bigger part of him decided not to let them out.

He struggled with himself for a moment, tried to swallow it down, but couldn’t. Some instinct made him concentrate on breathing instead, and Bucky shook his head.

Although his gaze was lowered he could feel Deborah’s eyes on him for a long time, and he knew she was giving him time to make up his mind on whether he wanted to or could continue after all. When the silence became nearly unbearable but he still didn’t think he could break it, he could hear her inhale slowly.

“Do you feel in control of your situation at the moment?”

That was easier. It took only two, three slow, deep breaths, and Bucky found his voice again.

“I know I’m here because I want to be. The… the situation is fine, it’s just…” For a moment he struggled for words. “There are things I want to do, sometimes, but I _can’t_.”

“What things?”

The pressure around his throat was gone now, and it was frustrating.

“Like just now. I want to say something, but I can’t. Or do something, and I… I know I could, on some level, but it’s like I… forget. Sometimes. Damn, I’m sorry, that doesn’t make a lot of sense.”

“It’s most important that it makes sense to you,” she said placatingly. “I can’t look inside your head and know which things you’d like to say and what exactly makes you not say them, but I don’t need to. However, we can work on you becoming more comfortable and relaxed with voicing your thoughts. Again, writing them down would help you, I’m sure. So I’d like for you to take some time tonight - fifteen minutes at least, half an hour if you can do that - and write down whatever you can think of that you’d have liked to get off your chest at some point but couldn’t. Those things you feel comfortable sharing you can read to me tomorrow.”

Bucky finally looked up from his cup again, for the first time in minutes. “At… any point?”

“Whatever you feel like,” she answered with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “To me, to Steve, to anyone else.”

Her words made his heart stumble a little, but Bucky nodded anyway. Maybe writing was easier than voicing. He had no idea just yet what he would think of, if he’d even be able to think of anything at all. But he’d try.

 

***

 

Bucky still felt a little uncomfortable moving around in the house, especially at night. But he had finished writing into his journal, which he had kept filling over the past four days, and he also felt a little hungry.

When he made up his mind to go downstairs and entered the living room to ask Deborah if it was alright if he ate their dinner leftovers, he found her halfway through a movie. The three men on screen walking through a beautifully lit landscape made him pause, because they’d been wearing World War II uniforms, the British kind, and something in him left him unable to turn away.

It wasn’t cold dread like he sometimes felt when he remembered fragments of the past seventy years. It was recognition, more easily accessible like a vague dream, instant but, for the moment, not feeling just as threatening.

Deborah watched him with a mild and attentive gaze from the armchair that she turned towards the TV in the evenings. She hit the pause button, making the men on screen stop in their tracks.

“I’m watching Atonement. It’s a World War II drama and love story. Do you want to join me or would you rather watch something else? I can finish this another time,” she ended with a small shrug.

The question took him off guard, and Bucky looked from the TV to Deborah and then back. The silhouettes of the three men were still illuminated against the backdrop of a sunset on screen.

"You think I shouldn't?"

“No, I didn’t say that,” she replied, her tone much more conversational than it was during their therapy sessions. It was one detail he had noticed on several occasions over the past few days. Even though he could imagine that she never fully stopped seeing him as a patient or making her observations, outside of therapy she treated him like a regular house-guest whom she had invited warmly into her home. “It’s completely up to you.”

Bucky looked at her for a bit longer, and then shrugged. “Can’t be too bad then.” After a moment he remembered what he’d come here for, and added, “Would you mind if I had the leftovers?”

“No, of course not,” she replied immediately, her features turning even warmer, and Bucky took it as a sign that she was pleased that he liked her cooking. “It’s hardly enough for the both of us for tomorrow, so please, go ahead. I’ll just quickly dash to the bathroom and then we can finish the movie together while you’re eating.”

Three minutes later, Deborah was back on her armchair, Bucky had taken a seat on the couch with his plate of spaghetti bolognese and was twirling the pasta around his fork. The scene skipped to a pretty girl throwing a letter into a mailbox, to a Private Turner in France, and Bucky found his gaze glued to the screen.

For a moment this felt so damn familiar.

He wasn’t sure whether she had sensed it, but Deborah turned her gaze to him, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Do you want me to tell you what happened so far?” she asked and, after Bucky gave her a nod in reply, briefly summarised the plot for him, about how Robbie Turner and his sweetheart Cecilia had become victims of a plot by her younger sister, and he’d ended up in war instead of going to prison. Bucky felt a vague sense of recognition that many deals like that one had been made during the war.

“I like the film a lot. The book, too. It’s very bittersweet,” Deb ended before she directed her gaze back onto the screen.

“Sounds pretty damn depressing to me,” Bucky caught himself murmuring. He had finished the pasta while she had been talking, though he hadn’t tasted much of it, not consciously. He _remembered_ this. Trudging through the countryside in any weather, unshaven, unwashed, thoughts far away. “And that’s the stuff you watch for fun?” he said, corners of his mouth twitching only weakly.

She didn’t reply immediately, and Bucky almost considered already that she wasn’t much into talking while concentrating on the movie. Then, however, she inclined her head in his direction again. “I feel that… that tragedies have a very special merit to them. They remind us that suffering is a part of life as much as everything good. Sometimes we can relate to those tragedies and mourn our own through the fictional and thereby gain a sense of not being alone; and sometimes we can simply wallow in someone else’s misery and be grateful that we have it so much better.” She ended her words with a small chuckle and a shrug. “But you’re right. Happier stories are usually more enjoyable. I’m just also really quite a fan of that actor.”

Bucky glanced back at the screen, though there was something heavy weighing in his stomach. ‘Pretty eyes,’ he couldn’t help thinking. ‘Nice blue.’

His head hurt a little, but he didn’t want it to, not _now_ , so he tried to push it back or ignore it.

“Does he get home?” some part of Bucky wanted to know.

“Hmm,” Deborah hummed. “That would give away the end of the movie. Are you sure you want to know?”

He didn’t answer for a while. Just watched, a minute, two.

“He won’t, will he?” was what he said eventually. “Movies used to be all about happy endings, and I’m not even sure how I know that. Lots of them aren’t, these days.” Bucky didn’t really know if the term ‘lots’ technically applied, but to him it felt that way. He gave a brief nod towards the screen. “This looks like one of them.”

Again, it took a while before she replied. “I’m not so sure about that. I remember a few classics from your days that didn’t have a happy ending either. Like Casablanca or Gone With The Wind. Or…” But she didn’t get to finish, as in that moment the familiar, soft ‘meow’ made them look in direction of the kitchen door. Sabina came running in, tail up high and slender paws scurrying over the carpet quickly before, without even seeming to take a moment to consider, she jumped onto the couch and gave Bucky another soft and throaty ‘meow’.

Bucky glanced from the cat to her owner, not sure why she wasn’t there, but looking at _him_. He didn’t get cats, really. He had trouble with humans, for heaven’s sake, how was he supposed to figure out another species? “Is she hungry?” he guessed, a shot in the dark mostly, because he usually didn’t see much of her. During the sessions Deborah kept the doors closed so that she wouldn’t distract them, and Sabina was outside a lot, but after having spent the first two days here, she had started taking an interest in him. Winding around his legs, looking like she wanted something. Meowing at him, walking right over his thighs when he sat on the couch.

“She may pretend to be,” Deborah replied, dry humour in her soft chuckle. “Mostly, she just wants attention.”

Her words seemed to be confirmed by another soft sound coming from the cat who then sat her front paws onto Bucky’s thighs and bumped her head against his elbow.

He could only stare at her for a moment. Weren’t cats supposed to have some sort of sixth sense? Shouldn’t she sense it was better to stay away from him? Or something like that anyway.

“You’re a stupid cat,” Bucky murmured, barely out loud, but found himself raising his hand tentatively. Before he had even laid it on her, she was bumping her head into his palm already, hunching her back and kneading his thigh with her paws.

“I’d say she’s rather smart,” Deborah chuckled, only glancing towards them for a short moment before her gaze was back on the TV. “You should see her when she’s hunting bugs or mice. And she’s good at picking out the people she likes, too.”

To Bucky, that only confirmed what he’d thought, but he didn’t say that out loud this time. What came out instead, as he slowly started to scratch her behind the ears, was, “Why would she like me?”

“Oh, well, I’m not an animal psychologist, you know,” Deborah replied and turned around to look at them again, a smile on her lips. “But cats are very headstrong, sometimes even a bit capricious. They tend not to like people who run towards them and try to pick them up - unlike a dog. So when you leave them be and give them a bit of space they tend to get curious and regard you as a challenge.” She shrugged again. “Probably.”

Bucky huffed softly, in vague amusement. So maybe it wasn’t a sixth sense but pure stubbornness. Insistence on independency. Damn, he seemed to attract those.

The thought made him smile a little, and it was easier to pet her, to run his fingers down the fur from head to spine.

“Gabe found a cat in France once, some bombed out place.” The memories seemed to come along with the words, and for a moment the image of the black man in his uniform with that cat was as clear in his mind’s eye as if it was right there, happening again.

“Did he?” Deborah asked, not commenting on the uniqueness of him expressing a memory so naturally. “What did it look like?”

“White, black and red,” he replied without even thinking about it. “Called her his ‘lucky cat’. He was a bit heartbroken when we moved, both were, I think. It was where… oh Jesus Christ,” Bucky interrupted himself and went over the memory again that his mind had just supplied him with, just to make sure.

The next thing he did was to pull the phone out of his pocket Steve had given him and type up a message.

‘Tell me you did not throw yourself between a cat and a grenade to save the goddamn cat.’

It took about a minute before two messages came back in quick succession.

‘You remember that?’ and ‘I mean… would you believe me if I said I’d never do something so reckless?’

Bucky huffed and shook his head incredulously, wanting to smack Steve all over again.

‘I picked shrapnel out of your back for almost two hours. You’re an idiot.’

‘You did a really good job at it,’ came the reply a few moments later. ‘And thank you for not mentioning the pieces in my butt.’

He threw the phone into the other corner of the couch, pressing his lips together because the corners of his mouth were twitching, and Steve was an idiot. It startled the cat a little, but she only meowed indignantly at him, and then draped herself over his lap. Bucky carefully ruffled the fur in the back of her neck, and didn’t last longer than two minutes before he had to lean over and pick up the phone again.

‘They served you right.’

‘That’s not what Gabe and Lucky said,’ came the reply a short while later, and again, while Bucky was already pondering his response, another like an afterthought, ‘I’m glad you remember, though.’

He gave up trying to come up with something then. His fingers closed around the phone and he put it under his chin, something tight and wide in his chest that he didn’t quite understand. His eyes went back to the screen, to the plain blond nurse and a lot of wounded soldiers, and ache hit his chest like a freight train.

His head was getting better at putting together flashes like pieces of a puzzle, and Bucky could pinpoint some now. With the Commandos, mostly. Those men that had been nothing but foreign faces to him only weeks ago.

He only saw from the corner of his eye how Deborah turned her head again and regarded him for a few moments. “James?” she simply asked, tone kind and a little bit different than it was during their therapy sessions.

His breath hitched in his throat, fingers tightening around the phone. And suddenly the words were just there, and he couldn’t put them back inside.

“I thought he was dying on me so damn often. I remember… I remember that. He was doing the most ridiculous, reckless things, it’s a goddamn miracle he’s still breathing. I… remember how it felt in the trenches, when it rained and it was cold, and it went all through you right down to the bone, and you thought you’d never be warm again. I remember seeing wounded soldiers, knowing they were dying right before your eyes. The smell. Some stuff is blurry, but I remember now, that was… actually me. I was there, I know I was. And Dugan and Monty, the boys, it’s like I know them again, somehow. It’s so messed up, to remember stuff when the rest is still blank, to think it’s yours, could be yours, but then think it’s all an illusion, or a lie, or some sick game your mind is playing with you. I remember the cigarettes Dernier smoked, but I can’t remember my mother’s face, I _can’t_. I still can’t make sense of the past seventy years. I remember a summer’s night in Poland and the way the sky was lit, and the… the ring Gabe had on a chain around his neck. Steve’s compass with his girl in it. Sitting in some pub with the guys. And… _that_ ,” he said and swallowed, nodding at the screen where the blue-eyed boy was spitting fire at the blond girl who had condemned him to his fate. “That kind of rage. I know.”

After he had ended, Deborah regarded him for a long moment while Sabina stretched on Bucky’s lap and then, without warning, jumped up and dashed out of the living room into the kitchen.

“Maybe I should refill her bowl after all. Would you like some tea?” Deborah asked as she rose from the armchair, leaving the movie running this time.

Bucky just shook his head, feeling as though for the moment, all words had left him.

Deborah returned a few minutes later with a cup for herself, letting it steep on the coffee table, and a glass of water for him. Instead of taking her usual seat again, however, she sat down next to him on the couch.

“That was quite a rush of memories just there,” she said calmly. “How are you feeling?”

‘Drained,’ he wanted to say, but only kept staring at the coffee table for a moment. Drained, weak, shaky. Wishing Steve was there so he could hide against him, or find some other place where he could shut everything out.

What he said instead was, “They’re not all at once. The small things, they just come back, at some point. They’re just there.”

“It’s what you wanted,” she said after a while, no question in her tone. “But it’s overwhelming sometimes.” Deborah leaned forward and pulled the tea bag out of her cup, up and down a few times before she decided to let it steep a little bit longer. “You know, it is a general fact to life that many things we want or which we know will be good for us in the end take a lot of effort, and sometimes the effort is so big that we can lose sight of the benefits. In such moments, we need to remind ourselves what we wanted to achieve and how to look at it from a positive angle again.”

Suddenly Bucky wished the warm weight of the damn cat was back on his lap, and wasn’t he just ridiculous. It was hard to swallow.

“I don’t… I…” His heart was hammering, but somehow the words made it out anyway. “I’m scared of what I still have left to remember.”

“I can imagine that,” she started. “And I cannot tell you not to be afraid because some of the things you will remember eventually may be frightening and painful. But there’s the thing, James,” she went on, her voice more empathic and warm, encouragement in every of her words. “All your memories, the good and the bad, are a part of who you are today. That’s what you want to find out, is it not? So what you can do is either let your fears be a hindrance to finding out who you are and where you want to be, or you can face them and come out of this stronger than you’ve felt before. And I firmly believe that you can do that.”

Bucky wanted to believe her. With everything he had he wanted to believe her. And he didn’t understand why it was so goddamn hard sometimes, why he just couldn’t shake completely what seemed to have been ingrained so deeply in his fragile sense of self. It was hard to understand how anyone could really become this messed up.

“They really did a job on me,” Bucky muttered, trying for even the hint of a wry grin, but failing pretty spectacularly.

“They did,” she replied. “ _They_ did. And you’re already undoing everything they attempted. Every single time you’re remembering something new, or claiming something for yourself, making a decision, you’re destroying their work piece by piece. The more draining and frightening it is for you, the larger the piece. I didn’t want to speak to you as a therapist tonight, but…” She let out a very small chuckle but still regarded him with that piercing but sympathetic gaze. “It’s an exercise you can try. Envision everything they did in erasing your memories and controlling you as a wall, and every time you regain a memory, imagine one brick crumbling out of it. Or an entire fragment of bricks when it’s a particularly powerful memory. Try drawing that wall, if you like. That way you can look at it and see what you’ve already achieved, no matter how hard and painful it was.”

Bucky finally turned his head to glance over at her, grateful for what she said, everything she said, even the things that might turn out not to work for him.

“That’s a pretty big wall.”

The smile on her face grew a little warmer and wider as she looked at him. “And no matter the size, no wall is completely indestructible.”

He sighed softly, but this time the corners of his mouth twitched a little. “I’m sorry, I ruined your movie night.”

She let out a clear, loud laugh that made her face light up, the corners of her grey eyes wrinkling. She slowly shook her head before she reached for the remote and stopped the film all together. “Come on, let’s watch something uplifting and enjoy the rest of the evening together. What do you say?”

That one, finally, was easy to answer, and an actual small smile flickered over his lips.

“Yeah. I’d be on board with that.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which confessions are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, here's the new chapter. I think we'll stick to the weekly rhythm for now, which means a new chapter every Sunday. Not that many more to go, anyway. ;) Have fun reading and let us know what you thought.

For some reason, he could sleep through that night. Bucky had come to expect to wake up two, three, maybe four hours after falling asleep, so when his gaze fell onto the clock and it was a few minutes to seven, he almost fell out of bed.

For the rest of the day he wondered if he was actually relaxing enough into his new surroundings to have a full night’s sleep; if it had anything to do with the house; how being away from Steve played into that; if simply enough of that time that was supposed to fix everything had finally passed. It was confusing, even though it should be a good sign. But Bucky realised that he had probably been over-thinking it when he didn’t get more than three hours out of the next night, torn awake by dreams of cold and darkness, drowning, and an unshakable, consuming sense of hopelessness.

He was exhausted after that, and their exercises of exposure therapy during the next session didn’t help. Bucky remained on the sofa after they were done, while Deborah gave him the space he sorely needed. After a while Sabina was winding through his legs again, and when she jumped up and stubbornly pushed her way past his arms onto his lap, he realised that somewhere along the line he hadn’t just stopped minding, but was glad for her presence. Though he’d never be able to put the reason into words.

The following days were a constant up and down that had Bucky’s head swimming. He thought they were getting somewhere, somehow, forward at least. But most of the time it was like trying to walk through molasse, like something was constantly trying to suck him backwards, and it took such an effort to keep moving.

The worst thing was when something like that night where he had hurt Steve happened again. Not that he hurt anyone this time, because there was no on there with him, but he dreamed, and there were raw, choked screams, and it took him way too long to realise that he wasn’t strapped to a table with water running up into his hair, but that he was curled into a corner of the room he’d been sleeping in for almost a fortnight now.

It was hard to speak at all that day.

Deborah, of course, figured that out quickly, and didn’t try to make him. He’d been outside for the past four hours now, losing himself in the repetitive work of painting the repaired shed in a fresh sunflower yellow, a little too bright for his eyes, but it helped keeping his mind away from dark places.

“It looks completely unrecognisable.”

The words, delight in them as warm as the colour of the shed, pulled Bucky from his introspection. When he let the brush sink and turned his head, he saw Deborah coming towards him with a big glass of what looked like homemade lemonade in her hands.

Bucky took a step back from the shed and glanced at it again to take it in in its entirety. She was right, he realised. There wasn’t much left of the run-down little thing with holes in the roof and the few rotten planks of wood without any paint whatsoever.

“Right,” he replied softly, half surprised himself.

“Really, you did an amazing job here. Thank you, James,” Deborah said sincerely, a wide smile appearing on her lips as she took the sight in again. He only noticed then that she was holding the glass out to him. “Here, I made some lemonade,” she said, still smiling.

“Thank you.” He took the offered glass, pleasantly cool against his palm and fingers. It tasted great, and only when the lemonade hit his tongue did Bucky realise that he was really thirsty. But he forced himself to slow down and take only a few gulps before stopping. “This is really good.”

Deborah nodded, pleased. “I added a few leaves of fresh peppermint and a dash of ginger.”

Bucky nodded quietly and took another slow sip, letting the taste run over his tongue. “Thanks,” he said again, looking down into his glass to the remains of the freshly sweet drink.

“Well,” she started again after a pause, her eyes drifting from the facade of the shed back to Bucky, and her gaze shifted then, becoming more attentive and as if her grey eyes were hiding a whole train of thought. He had come to know her that much over the time he had spent here. “You finished that just in time, too.”

Right… he was supposed to go back in two days. The thought suddenly made Bucky nervous, and he drained the rest of his lemonade to buy himself another moment.

He missed Steve, every day. But it didn’t feel like that much had changed - like enough had changed.

“Guess I did,” he eventually replied and bit down on the inside of his lower lip.

Her gaze was still on him, as always when she was giving him time to decide whether he wanted to add something more, and Bucky was sure that, after a few more moments of silence, she would come up with something encouraging to say, something to push him gently in the right direction.

“You know, James, you don’t _have_ to leave if you don’t feel ready.”

That took him aback, and he automatically glanced over at her. But he shouldn’t have been surprised, not really. She had a knack for putting into words exactly what was worrying him.

Bucky’s shoulders slumped and he breathed out.

“I do want to. But it really doesn’t feel like all that much has changed, so even if… if I leave here, I can’t go back to him,” he somehow managed to finish, his voice becoming more quiet with every word.

Deborah didn’t reply immediately; instead, she took a step closer and, as she had started doing sometimes over the course of the past days, laid a hand on his lower arm. “You’ve been making great progress. Remarkable even. Please don’t underestimate what you’ve already achieved so far.” Her fingers gave his arm a soft squeeze before she let go of him. _Motherly_ , Bucky thought for a split-second. The way she had touched him was motherly.

“That said,” she went on, taking half a step back, “the two weeks were never an irrevocably fixed time span. I told you that at the beginning. In fact, had I told you my more realistic estimate, I’d have suggested you to stay six weeks. But I realised the thought of staying away that long would have been frightening and might have put you off the idea altogether.”

She was probably right, Bucky had to admit to himself. If she had proposed six weeks right away, he was rather sure he wouldn’t have left their apartment at all, considering how hard it had been for him in the first place.

He knew she didn’t expect an answer from him now, not before the day after tomorrow, before Steve was supposed to come back for him. There was still time, to figure out what he was going to do… two days of time.

 

***

 

All Steve was able to feel - from the moment he had gotten up, way before his alarm went off, and throughout the entire morning and the drive up North - was nervous excitement. Those two weeks Bucky had been away had not been the easiest for Steve; he had missed Bucky even more than he would have thought, especially in the evenings when he couldn’t find any satisfying activity to busy himself with. Some time after the first six days, and after having spent almost an entire day with Sam, it had gotten better, but the last two nights before the day he could finally go and pick Bucky up, Steve had hardly been able to sleep at all.

He couldn't wait to see him again, but he was also nervous, unsure of that first moment; whether Bucky would instantly let Steve hug him as he had imagined it so often; whether he had changed - which was the point of his stay but, for some brief moments of irrationality, scared Steve either way - or whether he hadn’t changed at all. But that nervousness was being pushed farther and farther into the back of his mind with every mile he crossed, and when Steve finally pulled into the driveway of Deborah’s house, again with Sam’s borrowed car, his heart was beating so rapidly in his chest that he found it almost difficult to breathe from the sheer joy of finally, finally being here.

In a few hours, they’d be back home. Bucky would finally be home with him.

When he turned off the ignition and got out of the car, Steve had to force himself not to jog all the way to the door and to press the doorbell gently when he was finally able to do so.

It took a couple of seconds, in Steve’s nervous anticipation stretching way too long. But eventually the door clicked open, gently and a bit hesitantly, and revealed Bucky, hair pulled back from his face, clad in jeans and t-shirt, an expression of something that could be tentative relief flickering over his face.

Steve let out a breath he hadn’t been aware of holding, and for a few more moments that seemed even longer to him than the wait just now, neither of them said a word. Until Steve finally breathed out, “Bucky,” and wrapped his arms around him.

It was nothing like the first time, when he had just found him again, nothing at all. Where Bucky had been unresponsive and stiff in that darkened back alley, his arms came up immediately now to return the embrace, and his body became pliant against Steve’s, fitting perfectly, easily.

He could hear Bucky breathe right next to his ear, a bit irregularly, could feel his fingers tightening their hold on him after another moment, and Steve felt like he couldn’t drink that moment in enough.

Eventually, he had to draw away though, wanted to look at Bucky, and his hands rested on Bucky’s shoulders as he did. “God, I’ve missed you,” he let out then, no more than a breathy whisper that ended in a chuckle, happiness bubbling from his chest.

Bucky just looked at him for a moment, and then the tip of his tongue flickered out for just a moment to wet his lips and he swallowed.

“Missed you too,” he said, and a small smile turned the corners of his mouth up.

Steve’s own smile spread on his lips so wide that it almost embarrassed him, and he gladly hid his face for another few moments by wrapping his arms around Bucky again, pulling him close.

That actually brought a soft laugh over Bucky’s lips, and though he didn’t try to get out of the embrace, he muttered, “Stop, you punk, let me close the door.”

Steve could only stare at him for a long moment, lost for words. He knew it was ridiculous, but that word, that teasingly endearing name, set something in motion in Steve that he couldn’t shake. All this time he had told Bucky and himself that everything was going to be fine again, that Bucky would remember and find his way back to himself, but it was that little word, that ridiculously small thing connected to so many memories that made Steve see the silver lining more vividly than ever before.

He swallowed down the knot of emotion in his throat, hid it with another small laugh that easily left his lips as they finally stepped inside the entrance area and Bucky closed the door behind them.

The sound of the door must have alerted Dr. Sanders as she came out of the kitchen that moment, walking toward them.

Steve remembered his voice and his manners then, extending his hand in greeting. “Hello ma’am, nice you see you again.”

“Please, we said it’s Deborah,” she chuckled before she led the way into the living room, conversationally asking Steve about the trip. They exchanged a few pleasantries that Steve found were difficult for him to concentrate on since he wanted nothing more than to take Bucky’s hand, sit down with him and ask him everything they hadn’t talked about during their few phone conversations.

It was really lucky that Deborah seemed to sense just that. “Well, I’ll leave you two to catch up. I have a few plants to pot around the garden shed. You should take a look at it later, Steve.”

“I will,” he said, curious about the work Bucky had been busy with those past two weeks. But right now he was glad to sit down on the couch with Bucky and finally be alone with him again.

“So, you’re… how have you been?” he asked, finding the question sound a little awkward in his ears as it had left his lips for lack of anything else to start with.

He could see Bucky take a deep breath before answering with a small shrug.

“I don’t know… some days better, some worse,” he said, turned towards Steve, but his gaze was lowered to Steve’s knees. But then he glanced up at him again, and after a long moment, that hint of a smile was back on his lips. “I’d be lying if I said it’s not really good to see you again.”

Steve gave Bucky a small smirk before he replied, “Then don’t lie. It’s a good thing to hear, you know?” What he couldn’t stop himself from was reaching out for Bucky’s right hand, entwining their fingers on the surface of the couch.

To his surprise Bucky immediately returned the gesture and squeezed gently.

“What, you thought I’d stop wanting to see your face?”

That made Steve let out a small laugh and shake his head. “No, not really. At least I’d hoped you wouldn’t,” he said, returning the touch of their entwined fingers, sliding a little closer but refraining from doing anything more than that, no matter how much he wanted to kiss Bucky. He really just wanted to get back home. “So… what’s the plan then? Are we having tea or coffee with Deborah before we head home?”

Something shifted in Bucky’s expression then, the smile sliding away just like his gaze, and he glanced down to their hands again.

“Yeah, about that… the thing is… I still wake up sometimes and don’t know where I am. Or… hallucinate and… Steve… It doesn’t feel like my head’s sorted any better yet.”

For a long moment, Steve just stared at Bucky, unable to understand what he was saying, because that couldn’t really be the outcome of this. The past few days spent in anticipation, wishing every second to move faster so he could finally pick Bucky up and take him back home, they were made null and void with what Bucky had just revealed. His first impulse was to argue with him, to persuade him, beg if that’s what it took, and for a split-second which Steve felt very ashamed for in hindsight, he even allowed a spark of anger to rise in him.

But then he looked at Bucky, saw that it wasn’t easy for him to say this to Steve - or even to have made that decision - and Steve felt his shoulders slump as reality hit him.  

“What… what does Deborah say?” he asked nevertheless, the tiniest bit of hope in him not yet vanished.

Bucky was very still, no signs of nervousness anywhere, except… his eyes. He wasn’t looking at Steve, and that betrayed all the turmoil that was so carefully - maybe instinctively - repressed.

“That I can stay,” he finally replied quietly.

Steve’s throat felt tight, and he had to swallow against the overwhelming sense of disappointment, not wanting Bucky to feel or see it. So he just squeezed his hand again, letting his thumb caress over the back of his hand. “And she thinks it’s… it’ll help you? That you need more time?”

Again it took a moment before he received a reply.

“She said she’d thought it’d take longer anyway. Just didn’t want to scare me off…”

Steve couldn’t suppress the slightly frustrated snort leaving him then, but he realised her strategy had probably been right. “How long then? Can you even say?”

“Four weeks… maybe…”

There was a soft sound then that could have been an aborted sigh.

“Steve, I’m sorry…”

“No, Bucky.” Steve barely got the words out as more of a whisper, and he had to clear his throat. His birthday was in not even two weeks. “No, don’t be. If you need this then there’s nothing to be sorry for. I guess I was just too damn optimistic again.” He had tried to say it with a trace of self-irony, but it had come out underlined with bitterness instead.

For a moment it was quiet, and then there was a soft but heartfelt, “ _Fuck_. No, damn it, let me apologise. _I’m sorry_. I hate this, but it’s the only thing that’s… that’s right to do. I just need you to know that I hate it as much as you do.”

“I do.” The words of acceptance, sincere and unfeigned, had come over Steve’s lips quite naturally then, and he felt relief over that fact himself. Almost as if it had fully become true after saying it.

Still, that awareness alone was hardly able to lift his spirits - nor Bucky’s - and Steve would be damned if he let their first encounter after two weeks and probably their last for another four become overshadowed by sadness and regret.

“So what was the plan for today then? You want to show me that shed? Take a walk or something? At least the weather’s really beautiful,” he tried with a cheerfulness that cost him quite some energy despite his good intentions.

Bucky’s reaction, however, was to roll his eyes, frustrated and defeated in equal measures.

“No. I just really want you to kiss me.”

This time, the small laugh that left Steve was genuine and he felt his heart speed up again as he brought his hand up to the side of Bucky’s neck, thumb brushing over his cheek. “Then what are we waiting for?”

Bucky huffed a little, and then he had already crossed the distance between them, head tilting a little to bring their lips together. It was soft and sweet at first, a hint of apology and regret, but entirely genuine.

Steve breathed it in, drank the feeling of Bucky’s lips that, for the first few seconds they were touching his, he irrationally missed even more than those past two weeks. He slid a bit closer, the hand that had been resting on top of Bucky’s shoulder now wandering around and onto his back. It was such an odd, bittersweet mixture of familiarity and something entirely new that he felt then, and it occurred to him that the novelty to it was this being a goodbye kiss that should have been one hello. At least, it was only the first of hopefully several more. If Bucky and Deborah hadn’t planned to send him off quite soon again.

It was that thought that made Steve break the contact and look at Bucky’s face again, almost unable to draw his eyes from those now slightly pinker lips that he wished he could kiss forever. “Can I… do you want me to stay for a while? For the afternoon?”

“All day, if you want,” Bucky replied quietly, his hand coming up to touch the side of Steve’s face, eyes never straying. “You’re invited to dinner.”

The soft laugh leaving Steve then was one of relief and - despite everything - happiness. “Great. Let’s make good use of the day then.” He had meant to bring up the suggestion of a walk again, but Steve couldn’t stop himself from leaning in and bringing their lips together again, the kiss still slow and gentle, and not lasting longer than a few moments.

But it left a small smile on Bucky’s lips when they parted, and Steve figured that was all that counted.

 

***

 

The weather really was beautiful. It was warm but not unpleasantly so, a soft breeze cooling the air that had been a bit too humid and hot the past few days. It made the surface of the lake move in soft ripples, the sunlight reflected on them, and Steve had to squint against the brightness of it before he decided to turn his gaze back to Bucky. Despite the beauty of the view from the small bench by the bank he’d much rather look at him anyway.

“Do you come out here often?” he asked, making Bucky shrug.

"Passing it on my jogging trail, but I don't usually stay."

He looked relaxed now, more than he had when Steve had arrived anyway, one foot pulled up on the bench beside him, arm angled and resting lightly on his knee. Before they had left, he had pulled on a light jacket despite the day's warmth, but it hid his metal arm effectively, and Bucky showed no sign that it was bothering him.

“It’s really nice here, though,” Steve said. As his gaze drifted back to the glistening water he did wonder why Bucky didn’t come here more often, but as everything else - food, music and all other mundane little things - Bucky probably just had to relearn to enjoy them. After all, that was part of the reason why he was here.

“There was a small lake like this somewhere north of Greenwich. We went there a few times with your family and once with some pals of yours. Do you remember that?”

After a moment’s consideration, Bucky shook his head, but a small, quizzical smile tugged on the corners of his lips.

“We had pals aside from each other?”

Steve had to laugh at that, shrugging. “You had.”

Bucky gave something like a hum in reply, reaching up to tuck loose strands of his hair back behind his ear. It was such a small thing, but seeing him do it made Steve realise that he hadn’t seen something like it only two months ago, something so entirely _human_.

“They don’t talk about things like this in the biographies.”

“You read a biography about me?” Steve asked, feeling his brows rise but a smile linger on his lips. Without thinking about it for more than a second, he reached over to take Bucky’s hand, entwining their fingers. It only did cost him a bit of effort to chase away the thought that he’d better use every opportunity for such touches for as much as they had left of the day.

“About the Howlies, not about you,” Bucky rolled his eyes, but the expression was good-natured, and his hand readily accepted Steve’s fingers between his own. “I only skimmed yours so far. Or… one of them, I guess. You’re a media phenomenon,” he remarked, the corners of his lips twitching again.

Steve let out a small chuckle, gaze averted for a moment as he softly shook his head, feeling mildly embarrassed. “Well… yeah, alright. I guess that’s true.”

He was quiet again for a while, simply enjoying the gentle touch between them, the warmth of Bucky’s hand in his as he gazed out onto the water.

“It was you who taught me how to swim, you know? I think I was eight or almost nine. I was scared of the dark water, but of course I wouldn’t let you see that. So we swam out a bit after I had gotten a hang of the basics. You never let me out of your sight even for a second.”

He didn’t receive a reply for quite a few moments, and when Steve finally glanced over at Bucky, he saw that the smile on his lips had widened a little, held a hint of some old warmth he remembered.

“Is there anything I didn’t teach you?”

Steve felt the smile mirrored on his own lips, warmth spreading through his chest, and he pursed his lips for a moment, looking up in thought. “Drawing. I tried to teach _you_ but you were completely useless. And… dancing. You never got around to doing that.”

Bucky’s eyebrows went up for a fraction. “The thought that I’m supposed to be able to dance is already ridiculous enough as it is.”

Steve’s first impulse was to tell him that he had been an amazing dancer, that all the girls had been crazy about him, waiting in line for him to swirl them over the dance floor, but he thought better of it than to make him wonder about things he had no recollection of.

“It seems overrated these days anyway. Nobody dances like they did in our time,” he said instead, gentle humour in his tone. “But you know, if you do remember eventually and feel like it I could add it to the long list of things I’ve learned from Bucky Barnes. There’s one more I can think of.”

“One more?” Bucky asked just as Steve had expected he would, gaze on him calm and mildly curious, and Steve turned towards Bucky, sliding closer on the bench.

“Hm, or maybe we kind of taught each other,” he said softly, lifting his hand to brush his fingers gently across Bucky’s cheek, smooth and freshly shaven. “This time,” he added before he leaned in, bringing their lips together for a feather-light kiss.

Bucky had gotten better at accepting these too, didn’t look as uncomfortable anymore, not about the kiss itself, but what to do with it, how to act afterwards. He raised his hand to let his fingertips brush over the nape of Steve’s neck, holding his gaze without having to look away all too soon.

“I kind of doubt you needed me to figure out how to _kiss_.”

“I kind of did,” Steve replied, a small chuckle bubbling from his chest, and he couldn’t resist repeating the gentle contact of their lips, letting it linger a moment longer this time before he let their lips part and rested his forehead against Bucky’s. It was an odd feeling that spread inside him then, the joyful lightheartedness still persisting but a sense of melancholy lying underneath, a yearning that he felt already, like a ghost from the future. He wanted more, more time, more closeness, more to take and so much more to give.

“I love you,” he said softly, his eyes still closed, their foreheads still touching. The only hint of reaction from Bucky he could perceive was stillness, for a long moment, before Bucky shifted. Arms came up around Steve’s shoulders, and he was drawn into a wordless embrace, fingertips at the back of his head.

Steve melted into it readily, drinking in the feeling, Bucky’s scent as he nuzzled his face against the crook of Bucky’s neck, just gently returning the embrace. He had not expected Bucky to say it back, didn’t need to hear it - to somehow match their feelings up against each other. If he wasn’t ready for this now then he would be another time. Steve was willing to wait for as long as it took.

“God, I wish I could stay here for--” But he stopped himself there, withdrawing slightly from the embrace, hand stroking over Bucky’s hair, down to his cheek. “No, forget that. I know you need this. I want you to do this. You took care of me for so long, it’s time you take care of yourself.”

Bucky turned his head, and the motion turned it into Steve’s touch, but let his gaze slide away as well. His expression was hard to read in that moment, half turned away, head lowered somewhat, but it looked to Steve as though he didn’t quite know what to say.

“It’s okay,” he said immediately, a gentle touch of his hand urging Bucky to look back at him. Steve gave him a smile, hoping to convey that he didn’t need to hear anything in return. “Just tell me you’ll do that. Think about yourself. Okay?”

Bucky finally nodded, and though he still didn’t quite look at Steve, it looked honest. He hesitated for a moment, and then requested quietly, “Can we not talk for a bit? I just want…”

“Sure,” Steve replied instantly, and, studying Bucky for a moment, let one arm slide around his shoulders to draw him in as he leaned back against the bench. Bucky followed the motion and shifted until he leaned against him, slightly turned away, but close. And this really was enough for Steve, too. Just feeling the weight and warmth of Bucky’s body at his side, letting his gaze drift forward again to watch a few wild geese land on the moving surface of the water. There was a quiet and peacefulness to this place that Steve hoped Bucky could appreciate, too. As long as they were both here, he didn’t need any words to make the most of their time.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which baby steps become breakthroughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks for reading and for commenting so far. Just a note on the next chapter: we might post it a few days late since saturnmeetsmercury is currently studying for her final exam, which she'll take next week Monday. But we'll try to post it as quickly as possible.

Steve stayed as long as they could get away with. It was already dark when he finally made his way back home, after a goodbye that was similar to the one they had exchanged two weeks ago, and Bucky stayed by the window, watching until the headlights were out of sight.

Deborah observed him with kind eyes but didn’t ask any questions, and she soon retired to bed, leaving a quiet, contemplative Bucky on the couch. He lay there for a while and tried to sort out his head and his heart, Sabina sleeping curled up on his stomach, a warm, trusting presence that was still confusing, but comforting all the same.

He dreamed of Steve that night, but he still awoke in the early hours of the morning with a strange heaviness that didn’t quite leave him through his usual routine until their session that day.

“He was so disappointed,” Bucky recounted quietly, avoiding Deborah’s eyes, his fingers softly drumming on the arm of the couch. “Tried not to show it, but he’s not good at that. I know this was the right decision, but God, I _hate_ seeing him disappointed.”

“Well, sometimes we can’t help being disappointed even though we know something is necessary,” she said with that quiet, warmly soothing tone of hers. “Do you think he believes this to have been the right decision, too?”

It took only a brief moment’s consideration before Bucky nodded. “Yeah. He has that way, you know? Always doing the right thing, no matter what, even if he hates it, or suffers through it. And then he smiles at you but it’s the saddest damn thing you’ll ever see.”

“But you know it’s necessary. And he knows it too.” It wasn’t really a question, but the way Deborah held his gaze firmly came very close to it.

“Yeah.”

He kept drumming his fingers on the armrest.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Good,” she replied curtly, her gaze resting on him for a while again. When he didn’t elaborate on his own, she added, “But there is an issue?”

Bucky sighed quietly. There was, it was what had kept him up quite a while the night before. And he wasn't sure if he wanted to talk about it to her, or to anyone, really, because… Because the matter was so private? Intimate? Bucky wasn't even sure.

But he had started to turn his mind inside out around her, tentatively at least. Was this really such a different matter? It couldn't be _worse_ , surely, could it?

He was also aware that it would be important for her to know, for her overall assessment of him.

So Bucky let his head drop back against couch and just went through with it.

"He told me that he loves me."

Deborah was quiet for a while. Only when he didn’t add anything else, she asked, “Why is that an issue for you?”

For the first time in a couple of minutes Bucky actually looked at her, to try and judge her reaction. He found it impossible.

"It’s… not…"

Words, goddamnit.

"It’s just not _me_ , is it."

“What isn’t you?” Deborah asked. Bucky had the feeling that she knew damn well what he was trying to say, but he had learned by now that, uncomfortable as these things often were, she always tried to get him to spell them out as completely as he could..

"It’s not me that he loves."

It came as a surprise, but the moment Bucky said the words, he realised that they stung.

There was sympathy in her eyes now, even if Bucky didn’t hold her gaze for long.

“Whom does he love then, what do you think?”

That, at least, was easy to answer, but the small smile it sent over his lips was a little bitter.

"Bucky Barnes. The one he grew up with."

For a moment it looked like Deborah was going to interject there; then, however, she lowered her gaze onto the tea cup in her hands and seemed to mull his answer over for a while before she came up with something else to ask.

“Were the two of you together before? During the war?”

Bucky shook his head. "No. There was… no. According to him anyway. Not that I’d know."

She just gave him one of those prompting looks, brows raised slightly, patiently urging him to elaborate on the sentence he had aborted.

This time, it made him sigh. He didn’t want to bring that vague memory of the one kiss into it, because it would only make things more complicated.

"No. We were never together."

Deborah took a slightly deeper breath and gave him an indulgent smile, accepting for the moment that he did not want to share more with her than what he just had. At least not when it came to his past.

“Do you love him?”

He had known that the question would come, bringing a soft huffed breath over his lips. Bucky rubbed his eyes wearily.

"How am I supposed to know? How can I know if I don't know for sure what the difference is between… I don't know. Familiarity, trust, friendship, safety, love. How am I supposed to know?"

“Oh, but you’re not. See, that’s a question philosophers, psychologists and artists have been arguing about forever. There is no _one_ definition of love and what it’s supposed to be. Of all the emotions we know, if you ask me, it’s one of the most complex and most individual ones,” she said and, having put the tea onto the coffee table, leaned forward a bit, one elbow on the armrest of her chair. “Maybe it’s easier to start with what you _do_ know, then. What do you feel for him? What do you feel when you’re with him? How would you describe the role he has in your life, and… maybe even in comparison to how it was before, depending on how much you can remember?”

How was she expecting him to answer that? Where was he even supposed to start?

Bucky raised his shoulders helplessly.

"He’s everything I _know_. Almost every good memory I have has him in it. He's the only person I feel I can trust completely. He’s… all I _have_."

Deborah was quiet again for a long time, and Bucky wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted him to continue or was pondering an answer until, letting out a minuscule sigh, she finally spoke again.

“I am going to do and say something that I usually would not do, as a therapist. I’m going to be perfectly honest with you and tell you that the situation you have - the both of you - is quite unique and makes it difficult for me to make the same suggestions and give the same advice I would usually make and give.” She picked her cup up again to take a sip before she leaned back into the armchair. “What I’d usually say is that being completely dependant on just one person is not ideal; and I’m inclined to say it in this case as well. What we all need to achieve - and for some of us that is a very long process we have not completed by the time we’ve become adults - is to find happiness and completeness within ourselves. To trust that, no matter what happens in our lives, we can survive, that, even if people we love and cherish may not be part of our lives forever, we will not be alone and, more so, lonely. And I believe that this is true for everybody, you included, and Steve as well.

“That said, the usual way to approach such a balance in one’s life isn’t always the right one. Maybe we have to approach things backwards. So, instead of helping you build your own life as I usually would - finding a job, an apartment of your own, establishing a circle of friends and various activities with various groups of people - to become that independent person, you _should_ use what you have. You should draw strength from what gives you confidence, makes you experience friendship, trust, safety, as you just put it - which, by the way, are the most relevant factors to what we call love, at least in my opinion.” She paused then, but her gaze was averted in thought once more before she looked up at him and continued.

“But that is just my guess, and I’m not always right, either. Maybe you can tell me what it is that you want in your life. And I mean what _you_ want, not what you think Steve wants you to be, or what you want to achieve in order to be a safe person for him to be around.”

Bucky was quiet for a long time. His head felt empty and too full all at once, and though he didn’t quite know if he could actually come up with something, there was one thing that had pulsed coldly in him when she had talked about it. One thing he _did_ know.

“I don’t want to be alone,” he finally said quietly, his chest tight.

“That’s very natural. Nobody wants to be alone,” Deborah said. “But you’re afraid that it could happen. That Steve could figure out you’re not who he wants you to be and leave you?”

Another soft, bitter sound came over his lips.

“No, he wouldn’t do that. He’d stay with me because… it’s the right thing, remember?” Bucky shook his head. “No… I’m afraid he could figure out I’m never going to be who he hopes I’ll become. And then that’s it. No matter if he stayed or left. That’s just it. And I already feel like an imposter sometimes when he looks at me.”

“You’re saying that like it’s a bad thing,” she said calmly. “That he’d stay with you no matter what.”

“Yeah, because it is,” Bucky said, trying not to feel irritated. “Because he’d do it out of a sense of obligation and mourn his best friend forever.”

She shrugged slightly, her brows going up a fraction. “That is one way to interpret it. But… Alright, let me ask you this way: Just as a thought experiment, what would you do and feel if your roles were reversed, or if Steve somehow weren’t the man you knew now due to an accident or sickness?”

Bucky looked over at Deborah somewhat wearily. “I know what the point of this exercise is. But there’s a catch: we already established that he’s all I’ve got, so of course I’d be going nowhere.”

“Okay, fair enough,” she said, again a little shrug before she waved her hand in a soft motion. “Then, two follow-up questions: would you feel like being unjustly trapped or just staying with him out of obligation, and how about if you had other people as well, a job, a few friends?”

“Look, I don’t _know_ ,” Bucky ground out. He knew that he was being frustrating, and he felt frustrated himself, but what else could he say? “I don’t know what it’s like to have other people, a job that doesn’t involve killing anyone, have… _friends_. I have no idea what that’s like, don’t you see? How can I know?”

He closed his eyes, fingertips coming up to press against the lids, the silence ringing in his ears for a long moment.

Eventually he shook his head.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No, I’m sorry,” she replied, her voice gentle and empathetic. “Look, I understand that it’s difficult for you to look beyond what parts of a normal life you have rediscovered and reclaimed for yourself, but I urge you to try it. Not now - that was a little too much to spring on you - but for us to change something for the better it is very important that we use our imagination, that we figure out what we’d like and what may be missing. But I’ll leave that for you to think about and discuss next time. Okay?”

“Okay,” Bucky replied softly.

“There’s one more thing I’d like to ask you now, and I’d like for you to at least try to answer it,” she started, her gentle gaze fixed on him intently again. “Do you think you deserve being loved?”

For a moment all he could do was stare at her. He felt his lips parting, but no words came out.

Bucky wanted to say something, maybe even what he thought she wished to hear. But he couldn’t, he felt like he’d been punched in the gut, but other than that hollow and numb. And he had to look away, blinking slowly against the sudden burning in his eyes.

What came out eventually, finally, was, “Maybe I don’t.”

He could hear her inhale slowly, then exhale, and she was quiet again after that for several long moments. “I’m going to say something atypical for a therapist again and tell you that that’s nonsense,” she finally said. “We spent over two weeks together already and have established a much closer relationship than I usually have to my patients, and I can tell you - not as your therapist but as a sort of friend - that, despite all questions of identity, you have many, many qualities most people appreciate in a person. You’re intelligent, polite, kind and considerate. You keep other people’s interests in mind - even if those other people are just Steve and, on a much less deep level, I. You have a strong moral sense - so strong really that you feel more guilt over things you had no control over than you should. James, from everything I’ve seen of you so far, whether you’re different now than you were before or not, I can say with absolute conviction that you are a good and, yes, loveable person. The only thing you need to do in order to fully appreciate that truth is to find it in you to love yourself.”

It was maybe halfway through her words that the burn in his eyes turned into actual tears. They started trailing down his face, warm but cooling quickly, and he didn’t dare turn his face back towards her. But Bucky couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop, and didn’t even really know if he felt ashamed of his tears or not.

He could hear her get up, saw the movement out of the corner of his blurry eyes until he felt her sit down next to him on the couch, a box of tissues held towards him that she must have picked up from the side table. He took some, but bunched them up in his hand for the moment.

“That’s why I said maybe we need to approach things backwards in your case,” she said as she laid a hand on his upper arm, her fingers soothingly rubbing up and down through the thin fabric of his shirt. “You need to accept that people love you, or at least like you, for who you are, now.”

Bucky closed his eyes again, tried to breathe evenly. It was easier this way, the shapeless half-darkness that meant he didn’t have to look anywhere, see anything.

“They made me think I was no one, for so long. Nothing. That there was nothing I was supposed to think, nothing to feel, nothing to care about, nothing to be. So long, _so long_. I still hear them, in my head, and it’s so _hard…_ ”

“You’ve come such a long way from that already,” she said, her hand continuing its soothing movements on his upper arm and shoulder. “Don’t forget the wall we’ve talked about and your list. You’ve achieved so much already, and if that’s not reason to be proud of yourself then I don’t know what is. I am proud of you, both from a therapist’s perspective and a personal one, and I’m very certain Steve is, too. The only one missing now is you.”

He wished, really, truly wished it were so easy. Something in his mind, something that had been drilled into it for decades was telling him otherwise, and Bucky was so _mad_ at it. He was so tired of it, tired to have to fight this all the time.

And then there was a different voice, one that was warm and simple, and Bucky wondered.

Wondered what would happen if he damned everything else and just _believed_ her.

 

***

 

“You are allowed to grieve for yourself, you know? For everything that’s been done to you. For everything you lost. And you are allowed to be angry about it,” Deborah said during another draining session, and the words stayed with Bucky for a long time, for hours after and all through the night.

There was so much going through his head. So many words and phrases he had turned over and over in it. Some of them he had scribbled down in a page of his notebook, to stare at them again whenever things got hard.

 _‘You’re a good and loveable person. Find it in you to love yourself,’_ was on one page, already worn around the edges with how often Bucky had rubbed it under his fingertips since Debora had said it to him. There was another page now, with new words.

_‘You’re allowed to grieve for yourself. You’re allowed to be angry.’_

Bucky stared at them until he fell asleep, unsure what to make of the pressure they put on his chest. While he slept, he dreamt of a rooftop and the weight of a sniper rifle in his hands, of a headshot in the far distance. He dreamed of being strapped down to a table and being hurt without even understanding what it was they wanted from him, what was right or wrong anymore. And he dreamed of Alexander Pierce and the chair, and when he woke up with a gasp and a choked scream, he remembered. How he had asked for Steve even though he had known they’d take it from him, and yet he hadn’t been able to help himself. And they _had_ … They’d put him back in the chair and taken the first memory of Steve he’d had in a long, long time.

Still it didn’t really kick in until he was on his jogging trail, as every morning. Maybe because he was afraid of losing control over himself like that. _You’re allowed to be angry._ _Be angry… Sergeant Barnes… take my hand… mission report… grieve… wipe him again… the Captain’s dead… missed you so much… who are you… focus… reprogramming unsuccessful, start again… proud of you… you’re a weapon… it wasn’t your fault… you are Hydra’s, you’ll always be Hydra’s… start over… be angry… all you have to do is comply… you are my greatest creation…_

His arm was whirring, then there was the crack of splintering bark under his fist. His heart was hammering, breath panting in the morning air. His chest was tight, _tight_ , something raging, and then he moved again, metal fist crashing back into the tree. His vision was narrowing, his head pounding, and if he didn’t do this, the tightness in his chest was going to explode.

Crack, crack, _crack_.

It wasn’t enough, not nearly enough. His right fist joined in, hit the bark, didn’t do nearly as much damage but hurt all the more, scrapes, blood welling to the surface of white-skinned knuckles. He ignored it and did it again, breath hitching, body starting to tremble, and this was new, so new, and Bucky realised that he wasn’t just angry. He was _furious_.

A scream sounded through the air he barely recognised as his own voice, and the wood splintered under the force of his metal arm’s punches, coming down again, again, again, again.

Later, much later, the sun had risen high over the trees, and Bucky was sitting against the foot of the tree he had damaged irreparably. The fight had left him, the anger had left him. Right now he was shivering, aching, his hand was bloody, but the wounds were already starting to scab. It hadn’t been freeing, exactly, and not purifying either, not in a way that might take all his troubles off him. And yet…

Somehow, somewhere along the line, Bucky had realised - had let himself realise - that Deborah was right. What they had done to him… Hydra, Zola, Pierce, all the doctors, the technicians, even the foot soldiers… that hadn’t just been wrong. It had been the worst kind of cruelty. And Bucky _hated_ them for it.

He let out a shuddering breath and brought up his hand to wipe over his face, realising it was wet, realising also that he had probably wiped blood on it now. So Bucky pulled up the hem of his shirt to repeat the motion, hoping he caught at least most of it, and tried to finally calm his breathing. And eventually he struggled to his feet, because he had to get back.

“Deborah?” Bucky called the moment he entered the house, his voice still unsteady, aware that he must look a mess, but he needed her, needed to talk to her, right now…

When he saw her round the corner from her study, the friendly smile on her features immediately faded, and for the first time since he had known her he recognised her as thoroughly startled and worried. “James, goodness, are you alright?” she asked, hurrying towards him, and she took his bloody hand in hers before he could even reply.

“Bucky,” he said before he had thought about it even for a moment, and he swallowed. “Can you call me Bucky? I need to talk to you.” He breathed in, somewhat shakily, and followed her gaze to his hand in hers. “That’s nothing, I just have to wash it off…”

“Of course. Bucky,” she said. For a moment she seemed to hesitate, looking back over her shoulder towards the guest bathroom, then to his forehead and hand again. “Do you want to talk right now or get cleaned up first?”

His first impulse was to say ‘right now’, because there was so much in his mind, so much… But if he tried to figure out where to start, the turmoil in his head let him draw a blank. And Bucky realised that he was covered in dried sweat from his run, and he hadn’t liked the worry on her face at the sight of the blood on his hand and where he must have missed it on his face.

So he made himself take a deep breath. “I… I should probably shower…”

Deborah gave him a nod and a kind, encouraging smile. “If you need anything for your hand, let me know. I’ll make us some tea in the meantime.”

Bucky was still worked up when he stepped into the shower, and he took long minutes to simply let hot water run over him, the spray on his skin, the sound of drops on tiles calming him down. Breathing became easier, and the faint tremor that had followed him back from the woods finally subsided. His shoulders were aching and his hand stung sharply, but he had learned not to let anything like this do more than register in his mind, and when he looked down at it, it didn’t look as bad without all the blood staining it. The wounds on his knuckles had indeed scabbed, and that analytical part of his brain told him that it wasn’t a hindrance in any way, nothing he’d… have to report.

Bucky let out a sharp breath, hand clenching into a fist. _Screw_ them. All those Hydra assholes, and if any of them would actually find him at some point, would try to take him back in, they’d see _exactly_ what they had created.

He was calmer when he dressed himself, more settled when he went back towards the living room, even though the simmering anger wasn’t exactly gone yet, and neither was his resolve. He was going to do this.

Deborah was sitting in her armchair already, just pouring the tea when Bucky entered, and she just gave him another nod, looked towards the small couch where he was always sitting, patiently waiting for him to speak first.

Bucky wasn’t sure if he really wanted to sit though. He took another deep breath and came closer, his jaw working, hand flexing. He didn’t sit.

“I’m pretty sure they kept me on drugs. No idea what kind, but there was always this drip…” he gestured vaguely towards his right, “and when I… after the Helicarrier… I think I was on withdrawal. Thought I was dying, at the time, maybe that they’d put something in my arm that’d poison me if I didn’t come back when I was supposed to… but I think it was just withdrawal.”

Deborah looked at him, following every word and gesture, but she didn’t say anything, didn’t ask any questions, and so Bucky just went on.

“I started cracking the moment I saw Steve.” A soft, huffed sound came over his lips, and the hint of an almost desperate smile flickered over his face. “He said my name, and I… just… I knew there was something. And I knew I shouldn’t have asked about him, but I did, and they put me back in the chair. It’s… really coming back.”

Bucky had to bite down hard on his lower lip, and then he finally sat down on the edge of his usual spot, looking down at his hands.

“There’s more and more since I started sleeping better, I think. The way I was back when Steve picked me up… I think I was terrified. I didn’t _know_ , not really, just like I didn’t really know how to be angry with them. But there were these little things. When he said I could shower, I didn’t realise that there’d be hot water. He gave me a shave, that second day, and he was so… _so careful_ , so… and I’d forgotten… that he’d be like that. That _people_ could be like that. That’s really fucking messed up…”

Bucky swallowed and brought up his hand to wipe his eyes, resolved not to cry. Not again.

“It is,” Deborah agreed, tone quiet and really rather sombre, but that was all she said for the moment.

Bucky found himself nodding, and he took another deep breath. His thoughts were still jumbled, memories all over the place.

“I remember…” This part was harder, and he swallowed and made himself go on, even though he still couldn’t couldn’t look at her. “After that first time on ice, after they’d given me the arm, after Zola contacted them again… I was alone a lot. They had this small cell… whenever they didn’t work on me, I was there. It was always dark, always cold, always silent. They just let everything eat away at me. It felt like I didn’t even exist sometimes, and things were just starting to slip away. I didn’t…” His voice broke for a moment. “I didn’t believe them when they said Steve was dead, not until they gave me all these newspapers, not even then entirely, but… I didn’t know how to keep myself together if he was gone. They were messing with my head so badly, but it was really fucking clever… Putting all these doubts in my mind. Tired all the time, hurting all the time, and I was… _so alone_. Even before they started the wiping it was so hard to hold on to anything. The chair didn’t work as well yet as it did later. But they also had this guy, who was damn good at messing with you… putting stuff into your head… and I started losing grip on what was real. Again. I’d thought so often that it hadn’t been real in the first place, the time after Austria. It felt so ridiculous sometimes, Steve suddenly big like that, storming a goddamn Hydra base all on his own, everything we did after, that felt so ridiculous it couldn’t be real at all. They…” Bucky breathed out harshly, deciding he was going to spare her the worst of the torture he’d been subjected to. Although, he wasn’t even sure the parts he remembered had been the worst. Maybe there was a reason he was still missing large chunks of his time with Hydra, and he dreaded to think what else he might remember, should they ever surface. “They know how to hurt people,” he simply said, leaving it at that. “And then offering a way out. I forgot why I was even supposed to fight them. I tried. I _tried…_ ”

His throat closed up and he had to stop for a moment.

“You did everything you could,” she said, simple as that.

Was it really though? Was it that simple? It didn’t feel like it. It felt like this monumental thing that was hanging over his head, as if that dam had broken like he’d feared, and it was all crashing around him and he was drowning. Couldn’t he have fought them harder? Couldn’t he have done something, anything, to never let them take him over like this, make him do all these things?

Silence was hanging between them; Bucky didn’t even know for how long before Deborah broke it with her tell-tale slow intake of breath.

“How are you feeling now?”

Bucky closed his eyes and buried his face in his hands, just breathing for a few moments, fingertips digging into his forehead, his temples. With another deep breath, he dropped them again, the tips of his hair framing his vision.

“Angry, before… really angry… I don’t know. Tired, right now. I’m just so tired of all this.”

Again, she gave him a few moments to decide whether he wanted to add something, or maybe just to let his own words settle, he wasn’t all that sure.

“You remember how we said that every emotion you’re feeling is perfectly fine. Allowing yourself to feel these things is part of the healing process,” she started then. “You experienced a lot of things that would make anyone angry, livid even, would make anyone hate the ones responsible for what you went through. Emotions as powerful as such anger are draining. But, even if they’re not pleasant, they’re important and good. The secret is not to let them take over and consume you but instead experience them, accept them as part of your recovery. To fully and thoroughly let them happen, let them out and then, most importantly, let them _go_. As everything, that can’t be done in one step, it takes time and a lot of energy. The more you let out, the more tired and drained you’ll feel, but eventually you’ll find that there is less and less of those negative emotions, that anger and hate you’ll have to let yourself feel, and step by step it will get easier and it will feel more relieving than draining,” she explained again, most of it being nothing completely new to Bucky either. A small smile, encouraging and approving as he had often seen it, appeared on her lips. “And judging by the state of your hand you took a rather large step today. Though it may be a good idea to find other physical outlets to channel that rage next time.”

Instinctively Bucky’s gaze went to the back of his hand, to his wounded knuckles, slowly spreading his fingers. They weren’t shaking, not really.

“I was afraid that… if I let go…” He swallowed slowly. They had made him spend so much time on learning control over even the smallest, simplest, most involuntary things, and it was so hard to let that go, even now. “I’m constantly thinking about how there could be something programmed into me that… the moment I lose it, it takes over again.”

“Well, I’m no expert on that. I would assume, though, that whatever was programmed into you would have already taken over a long time ago if there was any such _fail-safe_. What I’m seeing instead is that you’re putting more and more distance between any such programming and yourself. And the human brain is not a machine. Nothing’s wired into it irrevocably.”

The words make Bucky glance over at her again, finally. It took him more than one try to get his next question out.

“Do you think I’ll ever be normal again?”

“What is normal to you?”

“Normal, like… people,” Bucky replied, his voice sounding small. “Who get to live their lives. I don’t wanna…”

“That’s why you’re here,” she said, not waiting for him to elaborate this time. “It may not feel like it to you most of the time, but you’re already much closer to _leading your life_ than not. Like people. People with troubles and issues, and with sources of happiness and fulfilment, too. Whether something is _normal_ depends entirely on individual opinions. Normal is not an objective qualifier.”

A small sigh came over his lips, and he slid back, drew his feet up onto the sofa and wrapped his arms around his knees.

“How can I let go of this?”

She’d said he needed to let it go. But right now it didn’t feel like he ever could. He’d only really found his anger, his fury, his hatred for the people who’d done this to him, and it was there, lodged into his insides now, and Bucky wasn’t sure if he could ever really let go of that.

“You’re already doing it. You’ve done it just now,” she said with gentle insistence. “Like I said, it may seem difficult to believe, particularly when you’re overwhelmed by what you’re feeling and fearing, but every time you talk about it, every time you scream out your anger, every time you look at things from a different angle and actively do something to cope with your past, you’re taking one more step to accept that everything you experienced is part of you, of your past, but it doesn’t need to stay in your present and your future with the same level of impact. Does that make sense to you?”

Bucky took his time finding a reply to that. He chewed on his lower lip for a while, fiddled with the fabric of his sweatpants under his fingers, and really thought about it.

It did make sense, but he wasn’t sure if he could believe that he was already doing that. Mostly he was entirely at a loss about his own progress, about where he was, how he was doing. If he was getting anywhere towards what he was trying to achieve.

“I think so,” he eventually said quietly.

“Good,” she replied. “Keep it in mind. Mull it over again, and… one last question before I go make us some fresh tea since ours turned cold: how big is the difference between you today and you when Steve found you, in every aspect you find important and wanted or still want changing? You don’t need to tell me,” she said quickly, already getting up and taking the tray with pot and two cups up from the coffee table. “Just think about it for yourself while I’m in the kitchen.”

“But I’m good with cold tea too…” he tried to speak up instinctively.

Deborah chuckled, a more prominent smile lingering on her features for a moment as she sat back down. “Alright then. Let’s not be too wasteful.”

So Bucky finally cradled his cup with the cooling tea in his hands. As always after sessions where he talked a lot, it felt like the words had left him for the rest of the day, and he knew that Deborah wouldn’t try to get anything else out of him. It meant he had a lot of time to think though, and he knew he was going to spend the rest of the day and probably most of the night doing that.

But still somehow he felt… lighter. Because now there was at least one person who _knew_. Maybe not the full extent, but enough. More than anyone else who had never laid a hand on him with anything but care. And he wasn’t alone with this anymore.

Never would be again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it is the 4th of July.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your lovely comments on this. And sorry for the small delay. Saturnmeetsmercury had her final exam yesterday, and I a busy weekend. ^^ Next chapter should be posted next Sunday again.

When Steve woke up that morning on the fourth of July he was with in an odd mood, one that he could have described as neither pleasant nor the opposite. The previous years it had been simply a day almost like any other, with the exception of some celebrations with new friends and colleagues, which had just reminded him of how alone he was, how out of place. This time, though, he wasn’t really alone. The phone he had left on the second pillow, the only thing occupying the space on the bed next to him, reminded him of that. When he picked it up to reread the text message he had received at the stroke of midnight he felt a smile form on his lips.

 

_Happy birthday, punk. Good night and sweet dreams. Gonna call you tomorrow._

 

It felt a lot easier to get out of bed then, to make coffee and, even if it was just for himself, a big breakfast with eggs, bacon and pancakes.

Sometime between browsing through the newspaper after breakfast and cleaning up the dishes, there was another setback, however. He called Peggy’s nursing home and learned that his visit for today needed to be postponed to another time since Peggy was having a rather bad day, a mild cold leaving her too out of it to receive visitors. Steve found himself with more time on his hands than he would have liked. Even though the nurse had assured him that Peggy would easily pull through, Steve caught himself thinking much more dire thoughts. He knew it was only a matter of time until there would be no next visit, time that, given the fact that he had not aged at all in those almost seventy years, felt utterly surreal and much too short.

Once there, Steve couldn’t drag his focus from those thoughts and everything in between. From the could have beens and what ifs, and a sense of regret gripped him that he both hadn’t allowed himself to feel nor really had had the time for in the recent weeks and months. There was comfort, too, in the knowledge that Peggy had lived a happy, fulfilled life, but the fact that he hadn’t been a part of it, neither actively nor as an observer - a friend to see her get married and have children - still stung. He knew that the second chances he had been given now were directly intertwined with the losses he had to accept, but for a short, selfish moment he imagined what it would have been like to have both. Peggy and Bucky, both there with him after the war, unscathed, alive and happy.

There was no use in dwelling on chances past, though, on dreams and fantasies, and the weight of regret in his chest was joined by a jab of guilt for not being grateful enough for what he had. He was, there was nothing Steve had ever experienced nor could imagine that had made him more grateful than Bucky coming back to him and being a part of his life, but there was Peggy, old and frail and barely a shadow of the strong, intelligent and amazing woman she had been. And Steve simply couldn’t force himself to not feel the loss of her, almost - and it shocked him to think about it that way - as if she, the Peggy he had known and cared for deeply, was dead already.

She would surely scold him if she knew he spent the morning of his birthday moping. That thought, at last, sent a small smile on his lips.  

He decided to go for a run, enjoy the fresh air and not think of anything much for a while, and it actually did work to clear his head.

After he had come back and taken a shower, it was still quite early, not even noon. He considered calling Bucky, but he didn’t want to disturb him in the middle of a therapy session or keep him from any other activities that were important for him, either. He finally settled in Bucky’s favourite spot, another cup of coffee in front of him and a book on his knees to keep him occupied for the next few hours.

It was a little earlier than expected when the doorbell rang, and Steve sat his book aside, hurrying to the door to open it. He was greeted by the sight of Sam carrying a tower of wrapped presents in his arms, barely able to grin at him over the top.

“Hey man.”

Although a little overwhelmed, Steve had to laugh at the sight. “Are you trying to make me feel guilty? How many gifts are there?”

“Twelve. Sadly, I can’t claim credit for all of them. Had to get some backup,” Sam smiled widely at him, and another voice added, “Hope you don’t mind.”

Natasha came round the corner to join Sam, a smile on her face, more presents in her arms, followed by Clint who was decidedly more tanned than Steve remembered him.

The smile on Steve’s face must have turned into one of pure disbelief, and he shook his head. “Now that’s a surprise,” he said, touched and really a little abashed at such a ridiculous amount of gifts. “Come on in.”

As they were carrying the gifts, Sam and Natasha passed him into the living room, and so Clint was the first who actually got to greet him, holding out his hand with a cheerful grin.

“Happy birthday, Cap. It’s really good to see you.”

“Thank you, good to see you, too. It’s been a while,” Steve replied as he shook Clint’s hand and then closed the door to follow his guests into the living room where he was pulled into a hug by Sam immediately.

“Happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Steve laughed, returning the hug with a firm pat on the back before he received a slightly gentler but nonetheless hearty hug and good wishes from Natasha.

“So… wow,” Steve couldn’t help saying as he took in the sight of his three guests and the presents they had brought. “I hope I’ve got enough drinks in the fridge. Beer? Or coffee first?”

They agreed on coffee, because one of the presents, the first they made him open, contained a personalised chocolate cake with the words ‘Happy 96th Birthday’ on top in white icing. Steve was just a little glad there weren’t actually 96 candles on top that he had to blow out.

He used the time it took to prepare the coffee to catch up with Clint as the others set the table by the couch. A few minutes later, they were all seated - Sam in the large armchair, and Steve next to Natasha and Clint on the couch - eating cake and drinking coffee.

“Man, this is really good,” Steve said. “You guys didn’t actually bake that yourselves though, did you?”

“What, you think cake-baking isn’t part of the skill set of super spies?” Natasha smirked at him and Sam mock-scowled.

“That’s my momma’s recipe, Rogers, you’re damn straight we made that ourselves.”

“Alright, sorry,” Steve amended, thoroughly impressed. “It’s really, really good. And looks very professionally made. You sure you don’t want to pursue a new career as pastry chef?”

“The icing was me, actually,” Clint spoke up from his corner of the couch and drew Steve’s gaze away from Sam to him. He grinned. “I was forced to contribute.”

“You did great,” Steve said around a faint smirk before he took another bite of the really delicious cake. “Don’t tell me the eggs you used are from your farm.”

“Don’t mock our efforts, Rogers,” Natasha threw in and swatted him over the back of the head. “How about you finish up and get started on your presents? There’s also a whole bunch of cards.”

“Cards?” Steve asked, a little confused. “By whom?”

Clint snorted softly, helping himself to another piece of cake before he stretched out his legs under the coffee table again. “Look at that. The whole world loves him and he wonders who’d want to write him a card.”

“Well, you know him. Always humble like that,” Sam said, grinning. “Just a simple dude from Brooklyn. Here, let me take out a dozen bad guys single-handedly while I help an old lady over the street with the other.”

“Here,” Natasha said and passed him a bunch of envelopes with a smile that was still amused, but softer than a smirk. “Go ahead.”

It took Steve a couple of minutes to open and read most of them - thoughtful to benignly teasing, from Tony and Pepper, Coulson, one that wasn’t signed but most likely was from Fury and several others from agents he had worked with, until, eventually, Steve decided to keep the rest for later and read them once his guests were gone.

In any case, Steve couldn’t help but ask himself how he deserved all of this, why now, this year in particular when he hadn’t received nearly as many before. “Thank you. Did you contact everyone to collect them or how…?”

“More or less, since no one really knew where to send them,” Natasha replied, a smile half hidden behind her coffee cup.

“Thanks,” Steve only said again, quite touched.

They made him unwrap his presents after that; there was some fine Italian coffee, three CDs with music from the 50s and 60s, a tin plate reading “Reserved for senior citizens” - of course, all three of them refused to admit whose idea it had been - a coffee mug with his shield printed on it, books, some chocolates and candy, among other smaller and bigger things, and lastly the largest of the boxes that contained four small, flat parcels that looked like DVDs at first, and a bigger one. As soon as Steve had unpacked the main content, recognising it as something he had seen and heard of but never used, the four additions immediately became clear.

“Is that… one of those game consoles?”

“Yeah, it’s a Wii.” Sam was grinning all over his face as he said it. “Don’t give us that doubtful look, it’s _fun_.”

“We already decided that we’re going to play Mario Kart,” Clint threw in helpfully. “And it has educational purposes. Contemporary reference and shit.”

“Ah, you bought it because it’s educational,” Steve remarked with dry amusement, though he was nonetheless grateful for the gift. If he could figure out how to play those games - and that was a rather large _if_ for him at the moment - it might really be fun.

“It was a nice excuse,” Natasha replied dryly but with audible affection, and was nudged against the thigh for it by Clint while Sam had already started setting the whole thing up.

Although the gesture had been completely innocent, there was something about the way those two acted around each other - something very subtle and difficult to even point your finger on - that made Steve think, even more so now than it had already done on similar occasions before, that the two of them were definitely more than just friends. If he was right then, with no SHIELD regulations and protocol having any relevance anymore, there was, at least, nothing keeping them from it any longer. The thought made him both glad and a tiny bit envious and wishing Bucky could be here with him, too.

“How long are you staying in D.C. anyway?” he asked, mildly curious, and Natasha shrugged.

“A couple of days,” she replied but did so without exchanging a glance with Clint, who still didn’t offer a reply of his own. “We thought you could maybe use a little distraction.”

Steve just let out a soft chuckle, lowering his gaze before he directed it towards Sam tinkering with the plugs and controls at the TV rack. He really did welcome the distraction, but the fact that they thought - knew - he could need it slightly dented his pride, made him feel somewhat uneasy, and while the rational part of him knew there was no reason for it, he simply couldn’t shake that feeling. Then again, it probably was precisely what made them stand out from just colleagues and turned them into real friends.

“Well, you weren’t wrong,” he admitted then. “Though I’m thinking you just want to see me make a fool of myself with that game box.”  

“What’s that? Giving up before we even started?” Clint raised an eyebrow at him.

“Who said anything ‘bout giving up?” Steve retorted.

“The confidence level in your skills can’t be too high if you think you’ll make a fool of yourself.”

“Also, it’s called a _Wii_ , not _that game box_.”

Steve answered both Clint’s and Sam’s words with a shrug and a vague smirk as he took the controller Sam had thrust into his hand and listened to the instructions.

He definitely was no idiot with technology and had long gotten used to the various items and gadgets that would have made him stare in wondrous disbelief in his own time; operating this _game console_ \- as Natasha had informed him with the addition that there was one called X- _box_ , too - didn’t seem like an easy task, though. Nevertheless, about twenty minutes and a few single player test laps on the race circuit later, Steve had somewhat gotten a hang of the basics. The first race that the four of them played against each other, however, was a complete disaster for him.

“Seems like your prediction came true,” Clint grinned, eyes not leaving the screen, and Steve figured out that his words were directed at Natasha when she replied.

“Then you know you should also be mindful of my other prediction that he’s going to learn fast enough to kick your ass by the end of the week.”

Steve wasn’t so sure about that, but by the time they started the second race he was inclined to at least consider it a possibility. And it _was_ starting to become fun. Just when he thought he did have a chance at not finishing last, having sped his little vehicle up quite a lot on a long straight, a banana came flying in front of his kart and pivoted him off the track. Judging by the way Sam was snickering in satisfaction it had come from him.

He was barely back on track, still trying to figure out how to accelerate while minding the serpentine curve, when his phone started buzzing softly in the pocket of his jeans. He let the game controller fall onto the surface of the couch, his heartbeat speeding up with joyful, slightly nervous anticipation even before he had taken the phone out to look at the display.

“Hi Bucky,” he greeted as he accepted the call and hurried into the kitchen.

“Hey Steve,” the familiar voice sounded in his ear. “Sorry I’m so late.”

“No, that’s fine,” he said immediately despite the fact that he had guests. They’d certainly understand. “I’m glad you called.” He turned away nevertheless, leaning against the fridge and facing the cupboards at the back of the kitchen. He briefly considered heading to the bedroom for some privacy, but that would probably look odd.

Bucky made a soft humming sound in reply. “So… happy birthday, again. I really hope you’re doing something nice.”

“Uh, yeah, I…” He threw a brief glance back towards the couch where his guests had paused the game and were talking quietly now, looking at the other three games they had bought for him. “Sam, Nat and Clint are here,” he said. “They gave me a game console. You know, one of those you can plug into your TV and then… complicated to explain,” he ended with a chuckle.

“No, I think I know… saw something like it on the internet once,” Bucky returned to his surprise. “That’s good. Glad to hear you’re not alone. How’ve you been?”

Again, Steve felt a little abashed that everyone seemed to worry about him being alone, most of all Bucky who had way more on his own plate, but it was also flattering, heart-warming even, and Steve found himself smiling more earnestly despite the fact that Bucky could not see it. “I’m great, thanks. I couldn’t go see Peggy this morning, though. She’s not feeling very well today. So I went for a run instead, started reading a new book. How was your day so far?”

“It was okay. We’ve been talking a lot, that’s why I couldn’t call earlier. And what are your plans? Going out for fireworks later?”

“I don’t know yet,” Steve replied. For some reason he couldn’t quite pinpoint, he didn’t really feel like celebrating the nation’s independence out in public. “The view’s not bad from the roof, I guess. Probably depends on what the others are up to.”

Steve was trying to at least seem like he was busy with something useful by filing through a cupboard in search for snacks, that it probably wasn’t all that polite to leave his guests alone for too long. But damn it all, they would have to live with that because it was just too damn good to hear Bucky’s voice, hear him collected and conversational and obviously doing better and better. “Are you having anything special for dinner?”

“Umm… I have no idea actually,” Bucky admitted, sounding a little embarrassed. “I should probably ask if I can help later… No, no, let go of that! Stupid cat…” he briefly interrupted himself, muttering, before addressing Steve again. “Sorry. Umm.”

It made Steve smile again. “What’s it doing?”

“She. Ah. You know that pair of sweatpants with the drawstrings down by the feet? She pounces on them sometimes when I walk.”

“Oh. Yeah I guess cats like that sort of thing,” Steve laughed faintly. “So you like the cat then?”

There was a pause, then a short laugh. “I say ‘stupid cat’ and you assume I like her. That’s so you.”

“I’m not wrong, am I?” Steve threw another glance over his shoulder, but his friends did not seem to mind his absence. He decided to arrange some crackers on a large platter and put chips in a bowl to not just idly stand around.

There was a soft sound in reply that could be reluctant amusement. “No… you’re not wrong.”

“That’s because I know you,” he tested the waters, carefully but more freely than he would have done before. He also did not expect a refusal from Bucky this time, even though it took a couple of seconds before he received a reply.

“Mmhm. I hope you do.”

“I do,” Steve replied earnestly, and he was glad Bucky simply let him confirm that fact, happy to comply when Bucky needed to hear it, even if he wouldn’t have asked for it himself. “You’re still my best friend, you know? Just don’t let Sam hear that.”

“Hear what?” Sam, as expected when Steve had raised his voice on purpose, perked up which was followed by some laughter from everyone which, in the noisy commotion, gave Steve the chance to quickly and softly add, “But not only.”

There was another brief moment’s pause, and then Bucky replied, sounding like he was smiling a little. “So that’s still on?”

“What did you think? Of course it is,” Steve replied quickly, though he wasn’t really concerned by the question. “Actually, it’s... “ Another glance towards his guests. It would seem a bit odd if he went to finish the call in his bedroom, now. “Still very much on. Not gonna change my mind about that.”

“Okay,” was his quiet answer, and he thought he could hear the faint sound of Bucky swallowing. “Me neither.”

It was a little surprising then, odd even, that Steve only realised as soon as Bucky had heard those words how much he had needed to hear them. The lighthearted mood left him, making room for a feeling that was sitting both heavily and pleasantly on his chest, and he had to inhale slowly as he leaned forward with his elbows on the countertop, glad, grateful, relieved, and missing Bucky more painfully than in all the days of his absence before.

“You know, that’s the best birthday gift I’ve gotten today. I mean it.”

Another soft sound. “Good… cause I kind of got nothing else.”

A small laugh came over his lips, though he still wished Bucky could just be here and not gone for another sixteen days. “That’s okay. I’m sure we can find something you can do once you’re back. Like… play Mario Kart with me and letting me win.”

“Like hell I’d ever let you win.”

“Good thing I have two weeks to practice then,” Steve replied, feeling the smile turn into a grin on his lips. It was getting time to end the call, though, and go back to his guests. After all, he was grateful for them being here, too. “Listen, I should get back.”

“I know. Tell… tell the others I said hi, okay?” Bucky said after only a brief moment of hesitation.

“Will do. And… thanks,” Steve said, not wanting to add what for but hoping Bucky knew he meant more than just the call.

“Enjoy your day, alright?” Bucky merely replied. “Promise you’ll do that?”

“I will. And you too, okay? Have fun watching the fireworks and playing with the cat.”

There was a soft, acknowledging sound, and then: “I miss you.”

He could barely contain the small sigh that wanted to leave him, and that odd feeling in his chest of being both happy and sad. “Me too, Bucky.”

“Bye, Steve.”

“Bye.”

With that, the call was ended, and Steve remained standing by the kitchen counter, the phone still in his hand for a few more seconds before he put it into his pocket, took a slightly deeper breath and turned around to go back to the couch with the snacks in his hands. And when his friends smiled at him, immediately taking some of the chips before they urged him to continue the game with them he thought that, no matter how much he missed Bucky at the moment, he decided it really wouldn’t be hard to keep his promise.

 

***

 

The wounds on Bucky’s knuckles healed in no time at all. And he… he got _better_.

The anger was still there, simmering below the surface, and sometimes, when he was out alone, he let it come out. It never went that far again, and he never worried Deborah as he had done then, and somehow he thought he figured it out. What she had meant with feeling it, experiencing it, but also not letting himself be consumed by it.

The guilt was never going to go away either, he knew that, no matter how many times anyone told him it wasn’t his fault, that he wasn’t to blame for any of this. It was still him that had to live with the memories that were indeed coming back the more sleep he got, the more rest his brain got to regenerate. They came in dreams sometimes, and he woke shivering and with tears on his face. Sometimes they hit him hard, without warning, like a punch in the gut and he had to double over, find something to grab and steady himself, and remind himself how to breathe. And sometimes they were just there as if they’d never been gone.

It was hard. It was still hard, and it always would be, Bucky knew that. But somehow he knew as well that there was nothing he could do to change what had happened. No matter what he did or didn’t do, those people were always going to stay dead. Irrevocably. No matter what he did, even if it was something he had thought of in his darkest moments, more than once, it wouldn’t change a thing.

What it _would_ do was make Steve miserable. At some point Bucky had tried to think about it, really think about what it must have been like for Steve. To watch him helplessly fall from that train and think him dead. To wake up in this time as the loneliest man in the world where everyone thought they knew him but actually didn’t have a goddamn _clue_ who he really was, and still somehow go on. To find him again while his work since he’d come back had fallen apart around him, to… _be_ that way with him, against all the odds in the universe…

No. If Steve really wanted to be with him, despite everything he had done, still wanted him to be there, then he’d do anything Steve asked of him.

And even though he knew Steve was biased, so biased, somehow it felt that if he, with all his goodness and light, found it possible, easy even, to absolve him, then there could actually be forgiveness for him.

Either way the thought of going back home to Steve, of staying with him, was the only thing Bucky could actually see for himself. The only thing he found he actually wanted.

And for that he had to get better. So he accepted it… and got better.

Bucky was pretty sure it wasn’t only that resolution, but maybe it was part of it. He’d come to Deborah to get better in the first place, but back then it had been a grim, tense kind of determination, and now… He couldn’t even say what was different now. But for the first time in forever, he felt like he could really breathe.

He surfed the internet more, watched videos, read articles, and not only about historical stuff he had missed. There were ridiculous, unnecessary things to be found on there, but some of them were fun, and he found himself baffled and amused. He watched videos of the moon landing and got upset over how he’d missed it. He listened to more music, went through Deborah’s records and CDs and the vast masses of songs on the internet, lay on his back on the couch and really listened to it, and he found _incredible_ things. He learned of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, Ray Charles, the 27 Club, Woodstock, Pink Floyd, MTV, Queen, Michael Jackson and Nirvana, a whole lot of _ridiculous_ things that had happened in the nineties, and stuff that had been going on for the past couple of years, some that he liked, some that let him doubt humanity. One evening he stumbled upon a song that made him freeze up, that took him back to old European bars or nights around campfires, and Dum Dum singing quietly, and Bucky remembered and shivered as he mouthed the words along, _‘But since it falls unto my lot that I should rise and you should not...’_

He called Steve that night, heart aching, and let his voice carry him off to sleep.

Only a day later Bucky found out about the Captain America Adventure Program that had been on the radio in the late forties, and spent three hours listening to the episodes wavering between horror and disbelieving laughter. It prompted an intensive search for every documentary and feature film that had ever been made about Captain America and the Howling Commandos over the past seventy years, and while the documentaries, like the one he’d watched with Deborah on the 4th of July, were mostly good, every feature film produced before the turn of the century made Bucky stare and blink. There had been one after that, in 2004, and that one, at least, had come closest. Close enough that there had been that tightness in his chest more than once while watching. He wondered if Steve had seen it, even knew they all existed.

After that, Bucky pulled up every single thing he could find about how they’d found Steve in the ice, how the news sensation had raced around the world only after the battle of New York (“Aliens, Steve? Aliens?!”) had seen the return of Captain America, and after people had realised that it actually was the _very same guy_ it had been back in the forties.

Bucky discovered hot baths. The way the softly steaming water burned on his skin and relaxed his muscles was a marvel, it was quiet and peaceful, and the silence was never crushing because the heat didn’t let his body remember even the bones-deep frostbite of his past. Sabina had romped around in the bathroom once while he had bathed, had watched him from the edge of the tub where she had balanced around for a bit until, somehow, she had slipped into the water, and the display of panic that followed had the water splashing through the whole bathroom and Bucky in stitches from laughing so hard.

One afternoon Deborah found him face down on the plush living room carpet and groaning in misery because not only had he just remembered how Steve had told him about the Dodgers moving to LA and _actually getting it_ this time (the memories just hadn’t been there the first time, the connection, the emotion), but that same day the internet had told him that the bananas from his childhood that he had actually started to really fucking miss had _died out_. The only thing that had made any of this better was the way Deborah laughed once he told her what was going on, clear and untroubled. Bucky hadn’t made anyone laugh like that in a long, long, long time.

She took him shopping with her once because she had wanted to get a new mattress for her bed, and said he could help her carry the thing. To be around strangers didn’t make Bucky as uncomfortable, as tense anymore as it used to, and he realised that no one stared at him, no one gave him a wide berth, and it was all so… _normal_. Bucky chased away the thought of what they’d all think if they knew, and when the saleswoman assumed he was Deborah’s son and she didn’t correct her, something warm in his chest made him smile.

But the best thing, he thought, the best thing was the way Deborah looked at him sometimes when they were talking, mostly outside of their session when it was something fun, or mundane, when they played Monopoly or Checkers, when they were watching TV or he helped her cook. When she was smiling in a way that he thought happened because she saw how much had changed since he had come here, and indeed even more since Steve had found him.

_How much._

She saw that. And the moment Bucky realised it was the moment he saw it too.


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which there is a piano, and Bucky makes good use of the internet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small update on the upcoming chapters: Editing chapter 24 we figured out it was way too long, so we split it. Which means there are 25 chapters now plus the epilogue. We'll continue to post every Sunday, so that's four more updates after this one. ;)  
> Again, thanks for the comments and kudos! We hope you like this chapter as well.

The piano standing by the wall behind the sitting group in Deborah’s living room had been untouched for as long as Bucky had been there. He had no idea how to play, and the mere thought of trying to coax something beautiful out of it with his hands, especially the metal one, had seemed daunting. Wrong, even.

There were framed pictures standing on top of it, one of them surely a couple of decades old. Various life stages, various people. He had looked at them twice, while Deborah hadn’t been in the room, but had never asked. Hadn’t asked if she knew how to play either.

But that day, a beautifully sunny Sunday afternoon, Bucky had slid onto the stool in front of the shining black instrument.

He knew what had made him do it, despite his lack of knowledge, despite the hint of uneasiness. It had been a memory of his youngest sister playing _Moonlight Sonata_ , beautiful and haunting, and Bucky sat there and stared at the keys, wishing he could hear that again. Wishing he could understand how to make something this beautiful.

“Do you play?”

He hadn’t even noticed Deborah enter the living room, but as he glanced over his shoulder, she stood there, a few metres into the room, having come from her study, an interested, open expression on her face.

It brought a soft laugh over his lips, and he shook his head. “No, not one bit. My, uh… my sister did. She was really good.”

Deborah smiled at him as she came closer, indicating for him to make room for her to sit on the small bench next to him. Her right hand went to the keys but instead of playing them, the movement of her hand was more of a caress. “I don’t really play, either. The piano was Alan’s,” she said and, upon Bucky’s mildly questioning glance, turned her head towards him, a smile that was wide and radiant but didn’t completely hide the melancholy in her eyes. “My boyfriend. He was a music teacher at the highschool here. Played _beautifully_ , as if he’d been born for it. I always asked him why he hadn’t tried to pursue a career as a pianist, but he simply said that he found greatest joy in teaching. That’s him, here,” she said, pointing at a photo of herself, about ten years younger maybe, and a man with thick grey hair and a full, well-groomed beard holding her arm.

Bucky knew without having to ask that the man in the picture was dead. He had never really thought about this, not really anyway, about Deborah’s life, the people she loved, and those she’d lost.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, pressing his lips together for a moment. “Does… hearing someone play the piano make you sad?”

She let out a gentle, clear laugh and shook her head. “Oh, no. Not at all. Quite the contrary. Though… admittedly, hearing myself play doesn’t really make me happy either,” she said, an almost impish smile on her features before she brought her right hand to the keys again and started playing a really simple tune. “Chopsticks. To be honest I really can’t remember much more than that.”

Bucky watched her fingers dance over the keys, wishing he were able to do that at least.

“Did he teach you?”

“He tried.”

That made him smile. “Well, you still know this one, so it can’t have been all that bad.”

“No. Well… I simply have no musical talent,” she said with a shrug. “On the other hand, he was really crap at gardening.”

Bucky could feel his smile widening into a grin, thinking of Steve and drawing and how much he knew he himself would forever suck at that.

“I think Steve’s got no musical talent. But he can draw. Why’d you never…” he began his next question before hesitating and glancing over at her. “You’ll tell me if I’m too curious, right?”

Deborah made a faint clicking noise with her tongue, shaking her head. “Honestly, Bucky, you’ve been with me for so long, and I know so much about you, I doubt you could be too curious.”

The words sent a small smile over his lips, and he lowered his gaze back onto the keys. “Okay. I was just wondering why you and Alan didn’t get married.”

She shrugged, but her gaze drifted to the small framed picture on top of the piano, a hint of that melancholy on her features again. “We simply didn’t consider it necessary. I was fifty-two when we met, just a few years after my divorce. We simply wanted to enjoy ourselves and got swept away by it all. The years passed, and we had everything we needed and wanted. We just didn’t think a marriage certificate would have made much of a difference, or any at all.”

He nodded slowly, because that sounded like it made a lot of sense.

“And… why didn’t it work out with your husband?”

“Oh, well, for a lot of reasons,” she replied. “We were very young when we met and both not quite grown into the people we later were. Sometimes, that’s no problem at all and you grow older together, other times you grow apart. That had been the case for us, though it was all very amicable, also in favour of our children. Though they were all grown up already when we split.”

And that opened up a whole new avenue of questions. Bucky did hope she’d really tell him whenever she wouldn’t want to answer one of them.

“Your kids… How old are they? How often are they coming around?”

“My daughter Rachel is my oldest,” she said, pointing at a slightly older photo of a young woman with long, dark hair in her university graduation robes. “She’s forty-one and teaching psychology at Brighton. So I don’t really get to see very much of her, sadly. But we try to arrange it at least twice a year. And that’s my son, Simon,” she continued, now showing a different photo of herself, her son and what probably was his wife. “He’s thirty-seven and a specialist for environmental law. He works at a big firm in Seattle. That’s his wife, Sally, and here on this photo that’s them with my two grand-children Debbie and Peter. They named them after me and the maternal grandfather. Debbie is six, Peter nearly four, and they have a third one on the way now. I see them a few times every year.”

A soft sound made it over his lips. “I can’t really believe your kids are older than me,” Bucky admitted, still looking at the pictures. And a whole lot at that, at least ten years. Though he didn’t really have any idea how the past seventy years had affected his aging process. How long had he been awake? A year, all in all?

“I hope I’m to understand that as a compliment to my youthful looks,” she said with a soft smirk, making him chuckle.

“It’s just so strange. I mean… you were born after I vanished from the face of the earth. I also can’t help thinking ‘bout what they’d think if they knew you had me here.”

“They do,” Deborah replied. “Well, I didn’t tell them your name or anything personal. That would go against doctor-patient confidentiality, but Simon knows I have a patient here for a few weeks, and Rachel… I’ve actually consulted her once because she had written her dissertation on post traumatic stress disorder in the military and has done a lot of research on it, since.”

That caught him off guard, and brought a kind of nervousness to his insides that would probably feel similar if they actually _did_ know. “Oh.”

There were a lot of thoughts going through his mind in that moment, about what their reaction had been to their admittedly unconventional arrangement, what she thought they’d say if they knew who he was, what her daughter had advised her about his condition.

“Can I ask what it was about?”

Her gaze turned slightly sombre then, and for a moment she seemed to ponder how to phrase her reply. “One area she had researched in great detail was dissociative violence. So I had asked her about that before I offered you to move in to back up my own assessment. And I consulted her a few times on techniques and exercises, also in connection with various types of memory loss and its restoration.”

Somehow to hear that actually relieved Bucky. He could remember how little he’d been able to understand her decision to take him in after what had happened, and it was good to hear she’d made sure she was as safe as she could. So he bit down on his lip and nodded before giving her the hint of a smile.

“‘m glad you did.”

She returned the smile more prominently and nodded. “Well, there’s also the fact that my daughter has much more profound knowledge about some details than I do. She gave me a few tips that proved really useful.”

Bucky hesitated before his next words, but he wanted to get them out. There was so much he owed Deborah, and even more people than that it seemed. “Can you… tell her thank you? From me?”

“Of course. She’ll be very pleased,” Deborah replied, and Bucky just nodded, remaining quiet for a while. There was a new thought in his mind now, a new idea that he somehow wanted to voice. He just hoped she’d appreciate it.

“You know… once I go back,” Bucky started, trying to figure out the words for this. “I mean, your kids are pretty far away, and for me it’s just an hour. So if you…” He let out his breath, glancing over at her. “If you ever need anything… or just want company, or if anything’s the matter, anything at all, you can call me, you know? If you want. I’d be there.”

She laughed out softly, touched and somewhat abashed, tilting her head as she looked at him. “That’s really awfully sweet of you, Bucky. Thank you. I might take you up on that offer, though I am hoping me needing something won’t be the only occasion for us to stay in touch.”

“No.” That made him smile, feeling light at the thought of someone having come to know him as he was today and still wanting him around. “I really hope it won’t be.”

“Good. And the same goes for you, too. _Especially_ if you need to talk about anything, are unsure about something. We can always make a follow-up appointment.”

And that was relieving as well, very relieving actually, because Bucky was rather sure that at some point, he _was_ going to need it. “Can we, like… for the next couple of weeks or… I don’t know… can I come over like once a month? Or twice?”

“That’s a very good idea, actually. I’m glad you’re suggesting that,” she said. “And we can always combine the necessary with the pleasant. You know how I love to bake and cook, and it’s definitely more fun to do it for someone else than always just for yourself. You can bring Steve, too.”

“Okay.” Bucky was smiling a little wider now, the thought still relieving beyond measure. “Though I’d still rather talk to you alone, when we… you know, talk. I think.”

“Yes, of course. Well, whichever way you want it, with Steve taking a stroll in the woods while we talk or coming down here alone, we’ll make it work.”

“Alright. That’s good, I… thank you.”

She gave him another smile but didn’t say anything for a long moment, and despite the light mood in their conversation just now, Bucky could sense that something else was on her mind as well.

He didn’t know how long it was, a minute or a little less, and Deborah looked at him from the side before her hand went back to the keys, very softly pushing one, then a second. “So… your sisters. You had three, right?”

“Oh. Yes,” he replied instantly, an instinctive smile flickering over his face. “Becca, she was the oldest. I think… I think I got on with her best, we were kind of on the same wavelength with a lot of things. She was…” A soft laugh came over his lips. “ _So_ beautiful. All three were, but she kinda… I don’t know. With Charlie I had the most fights, she was so headstrong, so stubborn. But I think… when we had fun, we really had _so much fun_. And Annie was my sunshine. She was always so happy and sweet, could make anyone smile even on the worst day. And talented, you have no idea…”

He had to take a deep, somewhat shaky breath.

Deborah just listened, but her gaze was on him intently, giving him the feeling that she knew more but was waiting for him to continue. Even though he didn’t really know what else to say if he didn’t want to launch into story after story of what he remembered of them, except…

“I really miss them…”

Deborah’s next question, after a moment’s pause, sounded like she knew the answer already. “And they’re all dead?”

Bucky instinctively lowered his head, a pang of bad conscience, shame even, and sudden fear constricting his chest.

“No… Annie’s… she…”

The same silence had settled between them that often did when Deborah was waiting for him to focus his thoughts on a problem, try to find an answer within himself, and it told him that the normal conversation had turned into one of therapist and patient again. And, same as often when he simply couldn’t go on, Deborah put into words what he either couldn’t see or phrase. “You don’t think it’s a good idea to reach out to her.”

He let out a harsh breath, needing to gather courage for the next words.

“I just think… what if it’s better if she never knew what I became? What was… done to me,” he quickly corrected himself.

“Is that what you would think if your roles were reversed?”

Bucky had to think on that for a few moments. It wasn’t easy, because just the thought of anything like that happening to her was _horrifying_. It was even harder to put himself in that place of normalcy, of having lived a life, thinking your sibling dead, long having overcome that grief, and trying to actually think about how that would feel.

But eventually he swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and replied.

“I think I’d wanna see her.”

Hold her, if she let him.

The thought very abruptly filled his eyes with tears and he had to close them.

For a long while he thought Deborah wasn’t going to say anything at all anymore, not to this at least because that, his answer, had been what she had aimed for, or not? Had made him find the solution by himself, even if it didn’t really feel like one.

When she did speak again, though, her words seemed like the missing puzzle piece to the dilemma. “The only thing you need to figure out then is whether you want to see her, too. And when you’re ready for that.”

“I want to,” was out before he even had time to think. But it was true, it was. Suddenly and overwhelmingly he realised that he had the chance to see Annie again, no matter if she was old and fragile by now. Bucky suddenly knew that if he one day heard that she had passed like Becca and Charlie, and he hadn’t seen her, he’d never forgive himself.

“I do.”

“Okay,” Deborah said, and the smile on her face told him clearly that she was pleased with his reply, almost proud maybe, the way she looked at him.

She gave him room for all that to settle, to sink in even deeper than it already had, but she didn’t get up from the bench at the piano yet, just waiting for a few more moments. “Do you want to try to play? I’m sure I could teach you Chopsticks, at least.”

He did. Maybe it was his decision, maybe he wanted to prepare himself in a way, feel a little closer to Anne than he had in years. And there weren’t many things he wanted more right now than to learn this, maybe for her, maybe as a dedication, to honour her.

So Bucky paid attention to everything Deborah was showing him, and after she had left him to look after Sabina, he sat there and played for the rest of the afternoon.

 

***

 

The next two days were spent with less soul-searching and a lot more exercises again, relaxation techniques and those that put him in a state of half-trance that Bucky still didn’t feel completely comfortable with. But he knew they were necessary to help him control triggering memories and remain grounded in reality should those instances occur that had worried him the most at the beginning of his therapy. They were draining and complicated and didn’t leave much room for anything else for the remainder of the day, so Deborah guided him through a meditation exercise on the third day instead. And, surprisingly, although it hadn’t fully worked as it probably should have, Bucky did feel relaxed afterwards, not too exhausted to talk.

They were sitting together in their usual spots again, a pot of a new type of tea Deborah had bought in town when they had gone a few days ago on the table between them. The start of the session was more conversational than anything, making it easy for him to maintain that level of relaxation while she slowly led them to the more serious topics.

“So what would you say about your level of control over things at the moment?” she asked then, stirring her cup of honeybush tea before taking a small sip.

Bucky was turning a cookie over in his fingers, nibbling slowly on it as he thought about the question.

“The anger thing,” he finally said, “worked better than I thought it could. It’s _scary_ , but I don’t feel like I could actually lose myself again, you know?”

“Good,” she said. “You’ve made great progress with that.” He could sense that there was a ‘but’ to her statement, though. “So you try to stay in control of yourself as much as you can?”

That confused Bucky a little, and he looked at her with a small frown.

“Of course.”

“Do you feel like it’s limiting you in a way? Like you can’t relax thoroughly? How have you been sleeping the past few nights?”

He had no idea where Deborah was going to go with this line of questioning, so he took the rest of the cookie into his mouth and ate it to give himself a bit of time before answering.

“I can relax in the bathtub?” Bucky eventually tried, and then shrugged slightly. “And, umm… okay, I guess. I’ve had nightmares, but I haven’t slept less than five hours a night all week…”

“That’s another progress. Very good,” she said. “And would you say you’re not in control when you’re relaxing then or is it always something in the back of your mind?”

“No, that’s always there, I guess,” Bucky said, frowning a little again as he tried to think about it. “It’s just hard… I know, rationally, that no one’s here to take all this away again, not right now, but I still feel that if I let my guard down…”

“Hmm… what about sex, though?”

For a moment Bucky was sure he must have misheard, and blinked. “What?”

She smiled briefly and tilted her head. “Well, forgive me the blunt question, but sexuality, for most people, is a relevant aspect of a person's physical and emotional well-being. So it's a perfectly normal topic for me as a therapist, and one like any other we've discussed. But if you’re uncomfortable with it, we don’t have to talk about it.”

His heartbeat had picked up, probably an instinctive reaction even though he rationally knew that Deborah was aware of what was there between him and Steve. For a moment he wondered if that was because he was aware, somewhere in the back of his mind, of how the time he was born in had seen these matters, and he had to remind himself not only that she knew, but that it was _alright_.

Still he wasn’t quite sure what to answer.

“We haven’t… I-I mean… we’ve mostly just kissed but… I don’t think that’s loss of control?” he carefully tried to find a way to reply to her initial question.

“Well, what I’m trying to say is not everything is always about being in control but about balancing it. When it comes to negative emotions, to rage and fear, then learning to govern these emotions is definitely a good thing, and you’re learning to master that better and better every day,” she said. “When it comes to positive emotions and sensations, though, controlling them often means not experiencing them to their fullest. And sex is a lot about that, about playing with that control, maintaining it or deliberately giving it up. And whether that’s together with a partner, having sex or just kissing, making out, or just with yourself, losing control in that way can be something really beautiful and stimulating.”

That got him thinking. He remembered that one time on Steve’s couch, and realised that even then, when he had lain back and had let Steve touch him like that, he had still always remained very aware of what was happening, what he was doing, what Steve was doing, and had never just let go, even when he had come. Bucky tried to think what that would be like, to… not think. To let go and trust that nothing would happen to him, that he’d still be himself once he’d be given back the reins, to give them up in the first place. It made his throat dry and his heart beat faster, a shudder going through him, born from a mix of both fear and yearning.

“And that… feels good?” he finally asked tentatively, carefully glancing over towards her. “Giving up control for that?”

“I think it does,” she replied. “To which extent is for everyone to figure out and decide for themselves, of course. But, as long as it is in a safe environment and situation, giving oneself up completely to the physical and emotional sensations allows to experience things in new ways and more deeply. Holding back and controlling yourself - those emotions and reactions of the body - will always limit that experience.”

Bucky nodded slowly, trying to wrap his head around that. He licked his lips and then bit into his lower lip before replying. “I’ll think about that.”

“Alright. Good. I guess what will help you there, in general with questions of control, is identifying the dangers and telling them apart from the pleasures,” she said and, with a nod and a smile indicated that had been all she meant to add.

They ended their session very soon after. Deborah wanted to sit outside on her patio for a while, and Bucky played with Sabina for a bit, but the thoughts that Deborah had evoked never stopped occupying his mind.

He wondered if it was strange that he hadn’t really thought about this, about sex since he had come here. And if that really had to do with the fact that the one time he and Steve had done more than kissing, he hadn’t really been able to let go - and that it had been followed by his attack on Steve when he’d been hallucinating. But now that Deborah had brought it up, had explained what was possible, Bucky couldn’t really _stop_ thinking about it.

So that night in bed he took out his phone, got on the internet, and read about sex. He read about it on Wikipedia, about the facts and basics, but that wasn’t enough. He read about sex between two men, how they could go about it, he stumbled upon accounts and videos, dirty stuff, scandalous stuff, outright strange stuff, some things that made him light headed and hard, but also heartfelt things about the emotional layers, things that only increased the feeling of yearning. And he read about control, about having it and giving it up, about it being handed to him and handling it.

Bucky read until the small hours, and when he finally, finally pushed his phone away to sleep, it was with the thought that, _yes_ , he wanted that.

All of that.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky's last day has arrived.

Finally, Peggy was doing well enough to entertain visitors, and Steve took that opportunity the first chance he got. It was a quiet, early afternoon. The sun was coming in through the open window and shining on the bouquet of flowers he had brought her. Peggy was sitting half upright on her bed, leaning against her cushions and pillows as her hand went back to caress the petals of pink gerbera and yellow daisies.

She was remarkably lucid that day, chatting animatedly about her children and grandchildren and their last visit. Steve could have almost forgotten that she had Alzheimer's if it wasn’t for the way her brown eyes stared more through than at him from time to time, the youthful sparkle in them gone. Steve knew in those moments that she was struggling to piece together the information she had to find matching memories that would allow her to make sense of it. She seemed particularly confused when Steve talked about his birthday and mentioned Sam, and it was clear Peggy had no idea who Sam was even though Steve had spoken about him several times before.

“I’m glad you had a good time,” she said nevertheless, her smile warm and bright, and she gently squeezed Steve’s hand between her fingers.

“I did,” he replied, smiling and suppressing the urge to mention he’d have had an even better time if Bucky had been there, too. But aside from the fact that he couldn’t mention Bucky and explain the complicated circumstances of his return to Peggy, he also couldn’t help but feel a small, and very likely irrational, sense of guilt towards her. So he didn’t say anything, if only to allow Peggy a few minutes of illusion, to forget that she had lived on for almost seventy years after Steve had gone into the ice.

“And I’m having a good time now, too. It’s always great to see you, Peggy,” he said instead. “And such a nice day, too. How about I take you for a little walk outside? Would you like that?”

“Oh,” she said quietly, her gaze going to the window where there were beams of sunlight filtering through the light curtains. “Yes, I think it would be lovely to see the garden. If they allow you to, that is,” Peggy added with a soft smirk curling around her lips.

“If not I can just sneak you out,” he replied, amused and relieved that, apparently, he wouldn’t need to tiptoe around her too much today.

There would be no sneaking out, either. Steve had gone to ask the nurse about it, and, since Peggy was doing well today and nobody could object to some fresh air, he was slowly rolling her wheelchair down the path in the park-like garden of the nursing home just about ten minutes later.

“Oh, look.” Peggy was smiling a little wistfully, her gaze going to the flowerbed on their right as they passed it by. “The Zinnias are beautiful. They always made me think of you. Such lovely July flowers.”

Steve had to chuckle at that, his gaze lowered even if she couldn’t see him at the moment. “They’re nice. Nicer than the ones I brought you.”

“Don’t be silly,” she shot back immediately, in that very same tone he remembered so easily.

“I suppose that means you liked them,” he replied evenly giving her a smile as he rounded the chair and sat down on a park bench to be able to face her. “I wanted to bring you some fine Scotch as well but they wouldn’t let me.”

“Don’t tell me you’re really surprised,” Peggy tilted her head slightly, the curl of her mouth soft as she regarded him. “What are you going to do with it now?”

“Probably not drink it myself. That would be wasting it.”

She nodded but didn’t reply anything this time, and for a moment Steve had the feeling that, as so often before, she was on the verge of losing her grip on the here and now, the look in her eyes faraway, and Steve felt a tight pressure in his gut, not wanting that to happen.

“Peggy,” he said, voice soft and masking his uncertainty as he took one of her hand in his and squeezed it gently. “You with me?”

It took a moment, but her gaze found his again, and something sad washed over her face. “Oh Steve…” She tightened her fingers around his gently. “You were always so strong for everyone else.”

It almost seemed like she didn’t fully understand that he was here, her words coming entirely out of the blue, something in the tone of her voice as if she was talking to a ghost rather than a person that was here with her. Steve had to lower his gaze, the look of regret concealed with a thin smile. “I just did what I had to do. No more than that.” He looked back up at her, the smile on his lips feeling more genuine now. “You were always the strong one.”

“Steve,” Peggy sighed softly, searching his eyes. “You’ve always been… No, you _are_ such a good man. And you've always thought way too little of yourself.”

The words sent something warm through his chest, something that chased away the heaviness of the regret he’d felt, and he had to avert his eyes for a different reason this time. “I guess that’s maybe because the only two people who ever saw something in me for who I was, before, were you and Bucky.”

She chuckled quietly and brushed her thumb over the back of his hand. “You boys. I’m glad he’s always there to have your back.”

For a split-second, Steve felt a pang of shock before his mind caught on with her words and he had to accept the fact that her lucid moments were coming to an end for today. “Yeah. Yeah, he is.”

Peggy smiled, and looked like she just wanted to say something more when something suddenly flashed over her face, worry and dismay and confusion.

“Oh… oh no, Steve, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said, her gaze flickering around unsteadily as though she was trying to collect something in her mind.

“What is it?” Steve asked gently, drawing her eyes back up to his face.

Her voice had gone quiet, barely above a whisper, and she was speaking fast as though what she meant to say could slip through her grasp.

“I… Oh God, Steve. I don’t think Bucky’s dead. I’m so sorry, I should have - I’m so sorry. We should have known, we should have - You weren’t there, and there was nothing anyone could do, and when you were I needed to tell you but I couldn’t remember. I tried looking, but there was nothing, it’s like he - But - Steve, I don’t think he’s dead…”

“It’s okay, Peggy, it’s okay,” Steve said quickly, his hand coming up to caress the side of her face soothingly. The gentle, patient smile cost him quite some resolve as his heart had started beating quickly in his chest. He couldn’t even pinpoint why exactly the revelation shocked him, so he focussed on easing her conscience instead.

“Everything’s alright, Peggy. You see, Bucky’s fine. He’s come back now. He’s with me.”

Peggy looked at him like she couldn’t really grasp what he meant or believe what he was saying, her eyes wide and wet.

“He’s with you?”

Steve nodded, a sudden knot in his throat not letting any words out. He swallowed as he grasped her hand again and gave her a smile. “He’s been back for several weeks now, and he’s okay. There’s nothing you need to worry about.” Steve spared her the circumstances, not sure she could process all that information and not wanting to burden her with the darker parts of the tale.

Peggy looked at him for several long, long moments, and when she let out a long, soft breath then, it looked like a great burden had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Oh thank God. Steve, I’m sorry, tell him, please. They… they…”

But it seemed like the thought fled her, only her expression remained in that uncertain state between worry and relief.

“It’s okay, Peggy,” Steve just repeated for the lack of better words. He placed an arm around her back and pulled her a little closer for a gentle embrace. “Everything’s alright. Everything’s alright.”

Even though that wasn’t completely true - for her, things never would be completely alright again - for him and Bucky it was, and it was with a sense of bittersweet relief that he got to share that fact with Peggy.

He just hoped she wouldn’t have forgotten it again by the next time he saw her.

 

***

 

It was Bucky’s last day.

And it had passed in a blur, really. Because he’d gone out with Deborah, just as they had planned for quite a while now, and she had taken him to a huge shopping center with all kinds of stores over three vast floors, for clothes, electronics, make-up, books, lingerie, with hairdressers and restaurants. Bucky would have lied had he claimed that it wasn’t at least somewhat intimidating.

But as every time he’d been out before, no one had paid attention to him for more than the time of a fleeting glance. He’d kept his hoodie on, despite the warmth, and his left hand in a thin leather glove, hiding every hint of metal. And no one had thought of connecting his face to the one of Captain America’s long dead best friend either.

They had bought a _lot_ of stuff. Bucky hadn’t found himself confronted with the issue of style in any capacity at all so far, much less of his own. And it dawned on him literally for the first time - he’d just never _thought_ of this - how different fashion was these days.

Deborah must have seen or already guessed that he had no idea where to even start, so she had smiled and steered him from rack to rack, had shown him modern t-shirts for young men, jeans, jackets, sweaters, shoes and shirts, and somehow it hadn’t taken more than ten minutes before Bucky could tell her exactly what he liked and didn’t like, and he’d started having _fun_.

It would have been way too inconvenient to try everything on, especially because he had to be so careful with his arm, and so they had decided to take a lot of it home for him to try later, after a trip to the hairdresser and a late lunch in one of the restaurants, a modern, bright place for Thai food.

Bucky had felt good… really good. He’d looked forward to seeing Steve again so much. He’d been happy with the clothes they took home with them, and he’d been confident enough to tell the hairdresser, a nice young woman with what had to be a completely modern pixie cut, to do with his hair whatever she thought was best. And the food, as well as the conversation they’d had in the restaurant, had been great.

So Bucky didn’t really understand how this was happening now. It had started when they’d sat down for the last session, and Deborah had asked him if there was anything left he really wanted to talk about. Suddenly, all his doubts had come flooding in again. If this really had been enough time, if it was really was safe enough for Steve to be around him now, if they had talked about enough of his issues, if he was actually ready for this.

Deborah had said that what he was feeling was entirely normal and had managed to actually calm him down again so that, while they had dinner, he was only a bit more quiet and thoughtful than he had been during their trip.

Now Bucky was standing in his bedroom, in the middle of trying on those clothes they had bought blindly, and he stared into the mirror at himself. He was wearing one of those jeans, dark blue and comfortable, an incredibly soft, perfectly fitting grey t-shirt with some sort of print on it, a thin zipped sweater over it, and suddenly he didn’t recognise himself at all.

There was a young man looking back at him, nothing threatening in his posture, in his face, looking so much like a normal, modern, (good looking?) guy that it was almost painful. A sigh fell from Bucky’s lips and he tugged on the drawstrings of the sweater’s hood in indecision.

A light knock on his door pulled him out of his thoughts, and he glanced over instinctively.

“Yes?”

The door opened and Deborah stepped in, a neatly folded pile of laundry in one hand. “Your remaining clothes,” she said, putting the pile on the small commode between entrance and bed before she turned fully towards him and took him in. “It suits you really, really well.”

“Really?”

It was more instinct than anything else that made him ask. Bucky still wasn’t used to how there were no strands of hair falling around his face anymore when he glanced down at himself, and so he reached up and tugged on his hair instead.

“I… guess it’s not so bad?”

She let out a small, warm chuckle as she came a step closer. “No it’s not. Neither the hair nor the clothes. Quite the opposite really, you look dashing.”

It brought a soft, almost bashful laugh over his lips. “Dashing?”

That hadn’t really been the word he’d have used.

Deborah shrugged slightly, lips pursed and brows going up in thought. “Well, or you know, whatever young people say these days. Cool… I don’t even know if they still _do_ say cool,” she laughed. “In any case, you look very nice.”

For a moment Bucky’s smile widened, but he kept fidgeting with his drawstrings, and he bit down on his lower lip as he glanced back towards the mirror.

He knew what her answer would be, but he still couldn’t help asking yet again.

“You really think this is a good idea?”

Deborah knew immediately what he meant; it was crystal clear in the way the amusement faded from the smile, which became thinner, but no less sincere; and her glance was warm and sympathetic.

“What’s important is what _you_ think.” When he gave no immediate reply, Deborah took a deep breath. “Alright… Bucky, listen. If you really think it’s too soon and you don’t feel comfortable enough then it’s up to you to decide against it and stay a few days longer. The choice is all yours.” She paused and looked him in the eye, stern and soft at the same time, and Bucky already knew - as he had so often - that she wasn’t quite finished yet. “But I don’t actually think that is the case. I don’t think that you don’t want to leave and see Steve again. As I told you before, being afraid and insecure before such a large step is quite normal and common, and most importantly, it’ll _pass_.”

Bucky didn’t even know what to say to that. She was probably right, as she was so often. He couldn’t help being nervous about this, but it _did_ make sense that he was. Considering everything that had happened, that might just be normal too.

And it was human… very human.

The thought made Bucky take a deep, slow breath, and then he moved without really thinking about it, a step forward, to envelop Deborah in a tentative, careful hug.

She returned it immediately, with a gentle care that was, he caught himself thinking once again, motherly. As she drew back, her hands were on his shoulders, squeezing them fondly. “So. What _do_ you think now? Do you want to go home tomorrow?”

Warmth was bleeding through his whole chest at the tone in her voice, the expression in her eyes, her touch on his shoulders. Bucky’s throat felt tight and no words wanted to come over his lips.

In the end, he nodded, and it felt much easier than he would have thought.

Home. Tomorrow, he was going home.


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bucky is finally coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry it took us a day longer to post the next chapter. Saturnmeetsmercury was on a well-deserved holiday. Just a note on our replies to your lovely comments (which we appreciate VERY much!): we try to split them equally between us and alternate a bit between whom we reply to. Since saturnmeetsmercury was very busy with uni stuff and now on holiday, it can sometimes take a bit longer until we've replied to each individual comment. Don't think it's got anything to do with the content or you, it's really just that we need to manage the time to do it. 
> 
> Also, this being the penultimate chapter (excluding the epilogue), we want to thank each and every one of you who kept reading this far (and patiently waiting for what you all will expect for chapter 25 ^^).

So there he was again. For the second time in four weeks, Steve was walking to the front door of Deborah’s house with a whole lot of mixed feelings making his heart beat fast. Of course, more than anything else, Steve couldn’t _wait_ to see Bucky again. Take him into his arms, look into his eyes, hear his voice; the phone conversations, although more frequent over the last two weeks, definitely weren’t enough anymore. But despite the reassuring text conversation they had had last night, Steve still couldn’t shake the remaining worry that he’d go home alone again, drive those sixty miles back to D.C. with nothing but an empty passenger seat beside him. That thought let a frustrated impatience spark in him for something that hadn’t even come to pass.

Steve took a deep breath and decided he was being ridiculous.

When he finally rang the bell it took only a moment for the door to be opened, and this time it was Deborah’s face he was looking at. She was smiling at him warmly as she waved him in.

“Hello Steve, come on in. Bucky’s upstairs, just finishing packing,” she said and Steve immediately felt that proverbial weight drop from his shoulders at the confirmation that Bucky really was coming with him this time. And when exactly had she started calling him Bucky, anyway?

“Thanks,” he just replied, not knowing what else to say because suddenly, dozens of questions were going through his mind, questions he could neither ask - let alone properly articulate -  nor would get an answer to. He simply smiled at her and waited at the bottom of the stairs.

It took only seconds before there was the sound of steps on top of the stairs and Bucky, who must have heard the doorbell too, came into view. A smile bloomed on his face the moment he saw Steve, tentatively happy.

He looked different, very much so, no comparison to all the weeks before.

His clothes were new, undeniably, blue jeans and white t-shirt with black and blue print, both fitting impeccably. And his hair was freshly cut, short at the sides and back, soft and ruffled on top. The metal plates of his arm were the only thing left from the man Steve had fought months ago, and he could only let out a shaky breath and stare.

The new look would take a while to get used to, but Steve was completely stunned. And on top of the hairstyle suiting him really well, making him look even more attractive, Bucky simply looked _well_ , happy even. So much more like the cleaned-up and cheerful young man Steve had known in his youth. And Steve knew the outward changes only reflected what progress had happened within.

It was somehow difficult to not let his eyes water with relief and joy.

“Wow, you… you look great, Bucky.”

Bucky was still standing at the second step from the bottom, eyes never leaving Steve, and his smile widened at his words.

“Not too much of a change then?”

Steve let out a small, breathy chuckle before he shrugged. “No, not _too_ much. Though I barely recognised you,” he said more as a joke than truthfully. “No, seriously, I like it. Do you?”

Bucky bit his lower lip around a smile and nodded, for another moment just looking at Steve. Then, finally, a wide grin spread on his face, the softest laugh came over his lips, and he skipped down the last two steps and wrapped Steve into a fierce embrace.

In that moment, when Steve felt Bucky’s arms around him and returned the embrace with equal strength as he buried his face at the crook of Bucky’s neck, he felt the remaining tension that had still been in him evaporate to nothing but sheer relief, gratitude and happiness.

“I missed you so much,” it came over his lips without much of a conscious thought before he drew away just slightly to look into Bucky’s eyes. “God, Bucky… you’re really coming home with me?”

“Yes,” came his reply without even a moment’s hesitation. Bucky tipped his head forward so that their foreheads touched. “I’m not gonna pretend I’m not a little scared, but I really want to.”

Steve’s first instinct was to tell him there was nothing to be scared of, but that wasn’t exactly true. “We’ll make it work, I’m sure,” he said instead and was convinced of it.

“I know,” Bucky just said, and though his voice was quiet, it was the first time Steve heard him that he actually sounded like he believed it.

It was then that Steve remembered that Deborah was still there, and instead of giving in to the urge to just kiss Bucky right then, he drew away a little unwillingly and cleared his throat. “So, what’s the plan? Do you want to have some coffee before we leave?” he asked, looking from Deborah to Bucky and back again.

There was a gentle smile on her lips and she exchanged a brief glance with Bucky before she softly shook her head. “No, I think he’s quite ready to go home now.”

“I’ll just go get my stuff,” Bucky added and, the fingertips of his right hand brushing fleetingly over the back of Steve’s, turned to get back upstairs.

Although Steve could hardly wait for Bucky to return, he took the opportunity to turn towards Deborah and take a few steps closer.

“He’s really doing well,” Steve said, not really a question as more an expression of how impressed and relieved he was.

Deborah gave him a small nod, and the way she smiled reflected a similar sense of contentment. “He is. He worked very hard on this.”

“With your help,” Steve replied. “So thank you for this, for everything you’ve done for him.”

“Well, it was a very rewarding experience for me too, so you’re welcome, both of you.”

Steve could only nod in thanks again, not sure how to properly express just how much it meant to him to see this change in Bucky and know - despite his earlier naive optimism that they would somehow wrangle through - he would have never been able to get Bucky to where he was today on his own.

“Okay. I’m ready.”

Steve turned to see Bucky at the foot of the stairs again, putting a bag down by his feet that he must have bought as well to fit his new clothes in. He slipped into a pair of shoes and turned towards Deborah the moment he straightened, taking her into his arms without hesitation.

“See you in two weeks, okay?” Steve could hear him say quietly before he drew back and looked at her. “And don’t forget what I said, please. I meant it.”

Although Steve didn’t know what Bucky was referring to, he could clearly see that Deborah was touched, could tell it easily by the warmth and sincerity in the smile she gave him. “I won’t. And you keep in mind what we discussed. If you’re struggling with anything, I’m just a phone call away,” she said as she squeezed his right upper arm.

“I know,” Bucky returned softly, looked at her for a moment longer, and then gave her another swift and careful but heartfelt hug before finally stepping away. He turned to give Steve a smile, then picked up his bag. “Okay.”

No matter how happy Steve was, he was a little nervous in that moment as well. Not unpleasantly so, but nervous nonetheless. “Okay,” he repeated as he held the door open to let Bucky through. Deborah followed them to it, and when they had loaded Bucky’s bag into the trunk of the car, they both turned around to face her one more time.

“Bye, and have a nice day,” Steve said and Deborah lifted her hand for a hinted wave goodbye.

“Take good care of each other,” she said, the smile on her lips making it seem like she had no doubt they would.

Bucky raised his hand for a goodbye of his own, and then they were both in the car, Steve had it roll down the driveway onto the street, and they were off.

Next to him Bucky let out a long breath. “So… did Sam get a new car?”

“Oh.” Steve had to chuckle. “Um, no, I did.”

He could feel Bucky’s gaze on him, the surprise in it even though he didn’t exactly see it. “You bought a _car_?”

“Yeah, well. It seemed like a practical idea,” Steve replied with a shrug. “We can’t borrow Sam’s car all the time, can we?”

Bucky hummed before he fell quiet for a moment. Then he asked, “How much money do you _have_?”

“Uh, well…” Steve cleared his throat, suppressing the smirk that wanted to form on his lips. “Not sure I should tell you. I don’t want you to be just in it for my money.”

Another pause. “Are you kidding me? How much?”

Steve had to laugh softly. “To be honest, I don’t even know exactly. SHIELD was paying really well. And there’s… there’s a trust fund Howard Stark opened for me when I crashed. Tony found it some time after I’d come back and gave it to me on the condition that I wouldn’t donate all of it and keep it for a rainy day, as he put it.”

Bucky let out a soft, disbelieving huff. “How’d he get the idea that you’d donate it all?”

“Because I’d done that with my army pension.”

He could feel Bucky’s gaze on him for a couple of long moments, but eventually there was another soft huff, and Bucky slid down more comfortably in his seat, long legs stretching out as far as they could.

“Nah… not gonna ask.”

Steve looked at him for a short moment before he had to focus on the gently winding road again, leading them through a bright forest. “Not gonna ask what?”

“About that story.”

“It’s a long one,” Steve replied. It wasn’t like he wanted to keep anything from Bucky, but he also really didn’t want to make it seem like he was bragging; the balance in his bank account frequently made him feel uncomfortable anyway. “But let’s just say that seventy years of interest makes for more money than I’d even know how to spend.”

As the road had now led them out of the forest and through some fields, they reached a railroad crossing with the gates just going down. “The car wasn’t cheap but the good thing is,” Steve said as he stepped on the brakes, “the motor turns itself off when you stop and automatically restarts once you hit the gas. It’s a hybrid, too. Means it runs on both gas and electricity.”

“That’s very interesting and all,” Bucky said good-naturedly, and Steve could feel his gaze on him, clearly sensing a ‘but’.

“Yeah?” he asked, turning towards Bucky and putting one hand on the back of the passenger seat.

The new look still threw him as he looked into Bucky’s face again, saw the mouth that was twitching into a smile.

“How ‘bout a kiss hello?”

“Hm, yeah, that sounds good,” he said, not even half as casually as he had intended, a sudden tingling feeling in his stomach making his lips twitch into a smirk before he leaned in and brought them to Bucky’s.

It was a soft kiss, slow with hints of smiles on their lips as they remembered what it was like to touch like this. A small sigh brushed against Steve’s mouth, and a gentle bite into his lower lip lit something up deep inside him. Despite the short time they had been together like this and the few kisses they had shared, it felt familiar in a way that made it almost impossible for Steve to imagine it hadn’t always been like this. At the same time, though, there was something new to how the gentle contact of their mouths felt. It was  lighter, somehow, less burdened and tasting like a promise on the tip of his tongue.

When he heard the train approach and pass in front of them, Steve mentally cursed its presence, half amused, half annoyed that he had to let go and drive on as soon as the gates would lift. He just pressed another small kiss to the side of Bucky’s mouth before he put his foot back on the pedal.

Bucky leaned back in his seat with a satisfied sound and reached out, starting to fiddle with the audio station, and after a moment music filled the car.

They were quiet for a while, but it was the best, most comfortable kind of quiet, relaxing and fulfilling, and when they eventually started talking again, about everything and nothing, it was just as nice. They didn’t really have to catch up on anything because their frequent text or phone conversations had already taken care of that, so it was about a song on the radio, about what they wanted to have for dinner, what plans they could come up with for tomorrow.

Some miles from the city limits of D.C. they passed a small shopping centre and Bucky asked Steve to stop there briefly. When he came back to the car with a small plastic bag, he was chewing on a Snickers bar and threw a second one in Steve’s lap as he got back in, and on the remaining route they were talking about programs on TV and commercials, and they laughed when Steve asked whether the Snickers had been some kind of subtle hint. And it all really felt damn amazing, their mood as bright as the sunny weather, and it made Steve want to pinch himself because, even if he had hoped it, he had not expected things to ever feel so great and easy.

Steve was no fool to think that this was the end of all troubles. He knew that there were going to  be difficult days and that Bucky wasn’t magically cured of all the trauma he had been through. But that, too, was okay, and Steve would gladly be there for him through all of it.

Finally back in the apartment, the first thing Bucky did was unpack his bag. Steve had asked if he wanted any help, but Bucky had declined, and so he just watched him as they talked a bit more, took in the various pieces of new clothing that appeared from the bag, watched how Bucky put them all away with a care that reminded Steve of days long gone.

“Hey… there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” Bucky eventually said, for a moment twiddling with the hem of a folded t-shirt.

“Okay? Sure,” Steve replied, curious but not in the least bit worried. “Just finish up and join me in the kitchen?”

Bucky nodded, and Steve went to prepare some coffee. A few minutes later, Bucky joined him at the breakfast bar, one hand wrapping around a cup, and he tilted his head up to brush a light kiss on the corner of Steve’s mouth before turning towards the dining table, grabbing his plastic bag along the way.

“The first thing…” Bucky began as he sat down, glancing up at Steve. “If it’s possible, I do want to go see Anne. And I’d be really glad if you could help me.”

Steve was surprised for a split-second before he felt like slapping his hand against his forehead. He really could have come up with that. Nevertheless, it made his chest feel wide with gladness, and he reached over to place his hand on top of Bucky’s when he had sat down on the chair next to him. “Of course I’ll help you. God, Bucky, I’m so glad,” he said, already thinking about how to best approach it, what he could say to her in preparation of what must be a shocking but amazingly joyful revelation to her. “Whenever you want to, I’ll call her and say I’d like to see her, and we’ll drive up there.”

There was a smile on Bucky’s face that looked relieved and grateful, and his pinkie moved to come up and brush against the side of Steve’s finger.

“Thank you. That means a lot to me.”

Steve could only requite that with a smile.

“Second thing…” Bucky went on then, and he picked up the plastic bag, sliding it over towards Steve on top of the table. His gaze rested evenly on Steve, not looking away once. And again, Steve had no idea what to expect. Not until he lifted the upper side of the bag and took a look inside. His gaze shot right back to Bucky.

“You bought this today?”

“Yes,” Bucky replied without hesitation. “I want to have sex. With you.”

That, too, shouldn’t have surprised him, but in the first few seconds after Bucky had made the verbal connection to the items in the bag - lube and condoms - Steve found himself too overwhelmed to form coherent thoughts, let alone a reply. All that did come over his lips a few seconds later was a short, breathless laugh and then, “You do? I mean… now?”

The corners of Bucky’s mouth twitched. “Yes, Steve, right here on the table.”

It took Steve another second or two to get that Bucky was messing with him, and he had to admit defeat, his cheeks burning and heart beating too fast to come up with an adequate retort. He could only smile and shake his head. “Yeah alright. Not _right_ now then. You just kinda caught me by surprise there.”

Bucky smiled a little, but he still watched Steve closely. “Look… only if you want, and only whenever you’re comfortable. I wasn’t trying to make you squirm… only a bit with the table thing, you walked right into that… I just want you to know that I do want this.”

“Yeah, I dunno, right now and on this table sounded comfortable enough to me,” Steve replied, having regained his cool but only partially joking. Over the course of the past few weeks, he had thought about this very often, had remembered all the kisses they had shared, the more heated ones and, once the impact of the shocking events right afterwards had faded, that one afternoon in particular. And often, when he had not been able to keep his thoughts from drifting in that direction, he had found himself hard and impatiently wanting nothing more. He had just thought that, with everything that had been going on, everything Bucky had to deal with, it would probably take a little while longer until they actually went there, and he’d been okay with that.

Bucky had finally lowered his gaze to their hands, his own having come back to Steve’s to entwine their fingers and let them curl around each other.

“Can I tell you what I hope… What I want from this?”

“Of course.”

Bucky didn’t reply immediately. Instead he took a slow, deep breath before looking at Steve again.

“With everything else they did, Hydra never touched this. This is mine. And I…” Again he had to take a deep breath. “We, Deborah and I, talked a lot about control, and about the fact that I was afraid to let go because… there’s this fear in the back of my head that the moment I do, it gets taken away again for good. But I don’t want that. Not being able to let myself fall. And there’s never been anyone I trust more than you, and I want you to have this. To do this for me. So that I can stop thinking and worrying. I just want you to take over so that I can let go.”

It was another moment of surprise because - unless Steve was interpreting Bucky’s words wrong, and he didn’t think he was - somehow he had thought it would be the other way around. In most of his fantasies, it had always been him, giving himself to Bucky, although the thought of Bucky underneath him, his legs wrapped around his middle, had been the centre of the one or other of his daydreams, too. The mere recollection of that imagery did make Steve squirm in his seat after all. It made a lot of sense how he had explained it, and among all the excitement Steve felt, there was a small ache in his chest that was both sad for what Bucky had to go through in his life, and proud of him being able to speak about it, to move on from it and make his own choices.

“Whichever way you want it, Buck, you can have it,” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he let his thumb caress the back of Bucky’s hand. “I just hope I’ll know what I’m doing,” he admitted with a both amused and abashed huff of breath.

Now the smile was back on Bucky’s face, more relief, and there was so much warmth in his eyes, depth of feeling too.

“Well…” he eventually replied and shifted closer so that he could put his chin on Steve’s shoulder and brush a small kiss to his jaw, smile widening, “the internet’s really helpful…”

“Oh. Yeah. Don’t think I don’t know that,” Steve replied. “But reading and watching is a bit different than doing.”

"But it should help. I learned a lot, the night I read up on all of it," Bucky replied, still close to his ear, an unmistakable smile colouring his tone.

“Oh, you did read up on it then?” Steve asked, feeling his brows rise, and for some odd reason the thought of Bucky browsing the internet on this topic sent tingles to the pit of his stomach. “I read a thing or two myself, so I guess it’s worth a shot.”

“Then you shouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Bucky shifted again, his arm sliding loosely around Steve’s waist, and he rested his head against the crook of Steve’s neck. “I’m glad I’m back.”

“I’m glad, too,” Steve replied, the embrace of his arms as he wrapped them around Bucky gentle, and he let out a content sigh, just enjoying the closeness for a while in silence. And this definitely was great too, more than he could have asked for just a few months ago.

“So, when… What do you want to do the rest of the day then? Shall we make something for lunch or an early dinner?”

“Lunch _and_ dinner,” Bucky replied, not quite ready yet to move, it seemed. “And in between you can show me your presents.”

That made Steve chuckle again, and he turned his head, leaning back slightly to look at Bucky’s face. “Okay, sounds fine to me,” he said before he stopped resisting the urge to brush a soft kiss to Bucky’s temple. And yes, maybe he was a little impatient right now, excited with the thought of what was awaiting him, but who knew, maybe waiting until late that evening would make it all the more worthwhile. And he had already waited for so much longer, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe we'll be extra nice and post the next chapter a bit sooner. :D Though there's nothing special happening in it anyway. Nothing out of the ordinary. It's really boring.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the one thing happens everyone was waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there it is, the final chapter (aside from the epilogue), a few days earlier as promised. The epilogue will be posted as soon as our lovely beta-reader is done editing it, which should be Monday-ish.  
> We'd also like to take this opportunity to thank you, Indigo, for all your hard work, your input and suggestions, and your enthusiastic (and sometimes hilarious) comments. Without you, the fic wouldn't have been as good as it turned out in the end.  
> But yes, this is not the end just yet. Now, without further ado, the chapter that you all probably have been dying to read, haha.

Something had uncurled inside Bucky.

It was nothing he’d be able to put his finger on. Didn’t even want to, really, because the specifics didn’t matter. It just _was_. A feeling of calm that started deep in his bones, that trailed through his veins into every nook and crevice of his body, that cradled and settled him.

Steve was watching the news. Bucky was watching Steve.

The couch under his back was comfortable, Steve’s thigh on top of his toes warm. Firm and steady. Bucky was aware of every breath, his gaze wandering over the angles of Steve’s face that had become familiar, that finally felt like they were ingrained into his being again.

He belonged here. With that mountain of muscle and bashful smiles over there, with his baby blue eyes, his genuineness, stubbornness and beauty, inside and out.

He finally belonged again.

“Do you want to watch something else after this?”

Steve had been patient with him, so patient, though it would have been difficult to miss that what Bucky had told him earlier had stayed on his mind throughout the afternoon.

Steve gave him a smile, just a subtle quirk of his lips, so innocent and warm that it made it impossible for Bucky not to smile back at him. His chest felt wide, a softness there that he’d had to relearn, and it was still a feeling he had to examine from all sides from time to time to understand it.

Eventually he gave a small shake of his head. “Not really.”

Steve’s brows went up, just a fraction, slowly, and the smile quirked upwards at one corner of his mouth into a tiny, questioning smirk. “Anything else?”

Bucky sat up, bending his knees and folding his arms around them. The movement brought him much closer to Steve, close enough almost that all he’d have to do was stretch his neck and tilt his head a little more.

“There kind of was, yes.”

Steve was still looking at him with raised brows, but there was something other than that playful spark sneaking onto his features, something much more gentle and serious. He leaned in towards Bucky, the distance between their lips just a hand’s breadth. Gaze wandering from his eyes down to his lips, a puff of breath against his cheek as Steve’s lips came closer.

Then he got up from the couch in an unhurried movement and held one hand out for Bucky to take it. “Come on then.”

Bucky took his hand without hesitation, let himself be drawn up to his feet. Their fingers entwined instinctively, and something fluttered in his chest at the way Steve looked at him.

This was his. _His_.

His fingers tightened between Steve’s as he followed him into their bedroom, not even a little nervous. And there, with the bedside lamp switched on by Steve, they stood in front of each other, a step away from the bed, and Steve just looked at him for a long moment, gaze drinking him in.

The blue of his eyes was so familiar, even while that gaze in itself wasn’t. Bucky remembered those same eyes from years and years ago, from another life, one where Steve was still small and the world very different.

“Don’t get cold feet on me now,” he said when the silence began to stretch, a tiny smile flickering over his lips.

It was mirrored on Steve’s, a bit more playfulness in it, and he took one step closer. “I’m not,” he said, voice low, quiet and warm. Then, his hands reached for the hem of Bucky’s t-shirt, lifting it slowly. The knuckles brushing up his skin sent sparks up his spine as they pulled the fabric away and over his head. Bucky shuddered, and he _let_ himself, closed his eyes and focussed on the hands landing lightly on his hips, thumbs brushing over his waist. He reached out blindly to steady himself on Steve’s shoulders, breathing slowly.

When he opened his eyes again, he could see Steve still looking at him, his gaze following the miniscule movements of his fingers on Bucky’s naked skin, just tracing upward in feather-light touches, before he leaned in. Bucky could feel warm breath on his face, could gaze into Steve’s still open eyes, see his lips part as they came closer until they barely brushed his, the ghost of a kiss lingering on his mouth for a long moment.

He wondered if Steve was nervous.

Bucky took another half step closer and brought their lips together fully, his right arm winding slowly around Steve’s neck while the left fell down to grasp his hip. Steve still tasted the same, still kissed the same, and for a moment Bucky wondered again how he’d been able to go so long without this. How rarely he’d even _thought_ of this. Now it filled all his senses and he wanted to do this for hours and hours, and it wasn’t even all.

Everything he had read came back to his mind, everything he’d seen that night, and it made his hips tilt forward of their own accord, made him deepen the kiss and his heart rate pick up.

Steve returned the kiss with the same intensity, let his lips slide against Bucky’s, the tip of his tongue meet his own with the softest of touches. But then he reached down for Bucky’s hands, took them into his as he tilted his hips back and brought distance between them. It occurred to Bucky, from the way Steve held his hands, the way their lips were still locked in a gentle but intense, slow kiss, that Steve was not nervous at all, not in the least bit, every of his moves deliberate and assured. Then, the contact of their lips was broken as well, and Steve took a half step back and looked down at their entwined hands.

“Is this okay now?” he asked softly, raising Bucky’s metal hand in his own for a fraction.

Warmth bled through his chest again, because Steve was still so careful, so aware of this. But Bucky only nodded, because, while he might still mourn the fact that he’d never be able to touch Steve with two hands made of flesh and blood, warm and soft, he wanted to leave that decision to him now.

If Steve was okay with it, then so was Bucky.

And Steve seemed more than okay with it, determined to make Bucky sure of that fact. He lifted the hand up to his face, gaze holding Bucky’s as he gently kissed the metal knuckles. His other hand was on Bucky’s stomach now, a barely-there touch of fingertips against his naked skin before he leaned in, kissed Bucky’s mouth again, kissed his neck, touched his sides, arms, shoulders. Softly, patiently.

Bucky only stood there and let it happen. His eyes wanted to flutter close, every touch registering on his skin, every single one going deeper than just one layer.

And he wasn’t afraid. Steve had reminded him, had made him relearn that touch could be like this, that it was possible to have nothing cold or rough or violent about it. Even when he closed his eyes his mind didn’t put him anywhere that wasn’t here, now. He was with Steve, and Steve’s touch was like an anchor, gave him safety and security.

They found their way to the bed eventually, only in their underpants, their clothes more or less neatly thrown over a chair. Steve was above him, weight resting on one hand as he let the other resume its earlier caresses, lips following the trail with gentle devotion, making Bucky shiver softly under the touches, because they were so… _so good_. Steve looked up from a kiss to a spot above Bucky’s bellybutton, and his hand reached up, fingertips running along the edge of Bucky’s jawline to his chin, lips.

Bucky hadn’t thought that feeling was possible, making him so light, so… boundless. He turned his face into Steve’s hand, pressed his lips against his palm, over lines and small bumps, up his fingers while his feet slid along Steve’s legs.

He wanted him closer.

Without thinking Bucky reached out to touch Steve’s hair, those blond strands that felt so soft under his hand, and brushed another kiss against the heel of Steve’s hand.

There was a smile on Steve’s lips now as he raised his head, just the tiniest of movements around his lips but more prominent in his gaze. He came up to bring them both to the same height, caressing the side of his face and looking down into Bucky’s eyes tenderly, _lovingly_.

“You look beautiful like this, you know that?”

It was ridiculous, what Steve was able to do with him.

“How ‘m I supposed to know that?” Bucky heard himself answer, unable to look away from the blue of Steve’s eyes, dark in the warm glow.

It let a soft chuckle come over Steve’s lips before he brought them down to Bucky’s, the contact light, breath ghosting against the skin above his lip before Steve inhaled more deeply and kissed him with growing intensity. The weight of his body only half supported by one arm, Steve pushed his hips closer, and the next breath that left him was a half-sigh, caught by Bucky’s lips.

He was rather sure being kissed by Steve was something he was never going to stop loving.

With only a small upward nudge of his lower body their hips met, sending sparks of arousal through him, coming out as a shivered breath in their kiss. Bucky’s thighs instinctively slid up to frame Steve’s hips, pull him closer, and suddenly that thought was back of what they wanted to do, were going to do, and his heart stuttered because the thought of Steve… inside him…

There was a soft sound in their kiss, and it took Bucky a moment to realise it was his, before a very similar one - hoarse and trembling - came from Steve. He broke the kiss just a moment later, and looked down into Bucky’s eyes. The warmth and tenderness in his gaze had been joined by hunger and impatience.

“You still want to do this?”

“Yes,” Bucky replied without hesitation, reaching up to run his fingers through Steve’s hair. His body was tingling, brimming, lit up in a way he couldn’t remember even with all those memories that had come back so far. “Yes…”

Steve gave Bucky a smile, the hunger as visible in it as it was in his gaze. He leaned back, sitting on his heels as his hands slid down Bucky’s chest, fingertips sending a tingling feeling over his skin, and Bucky raised his hips, arched his back as Steve pulled his boxer briefs down. Just a second later, he felt those amazing lips on his skin again, his abdomen, hip, upper thigh. A hand on him, stroking up his cock once to come to rest above his hipbone. It was the first time Steve seemed just the smallest bit nervous and unsure, pulling his lower lip in with his teeth around a tiny, bashful smile.

Not that there was any reason for that, Bucky thought. And yet, Steve, like this, was a thing of beauty.

He couldn’t wait to see what he’d look like later.

“Don’t think there’s anything you could do wrong, you know?”

A small laugh came over Steve’s lips, and he lowered his gaze for a moment before he crawled back up, leaning half above Bucky, half on his side. “Yeah I’m not sure about that. But I’ll try my best.”

“Steve…” Bucky reached up, after a moment’s hesitation with both hands, to frame Steve’s face with a careful touch, holding his gaze. “Trust me on this, okay? I mean it.”

“Okay,” Steve just replied, the expression on his features a mix of amused, bashful, touched.

“Alright, where did you put the…” he started asking, already reaching for the nightstand and opening the top drawer. When he turned back to Bucky, the bottle of lube in one hand, the nervous look on his face was replaced by one of concentration. “You tell me if something doesn’t feel right, okay?”

Bucky felt a small smile flickering over his lips in reply. He could get lost in this, and he was pretty sure he was going to. Just watching Steve.

It didn’t even feel strange, the slick pressure, the careful touches, the gentle fingers. Just new. Bucky watched Steve, his fixed point, and this he remembered… knowing how it was a little ridiculous, the way he watched him like he’d hung the sun and the stars.

Steve watched him, too, seemed to study each expression on his face, careful as he slid a second finger into him, brow furrowed in concentration. “How does that feel?” he wanted to know.

A small grin curled on Bucky’s lips and he replied, “Want me to draw you a diagram?”

Steve kicked Bucky lightly, playfully against his shin, but he grinned down at him, radiant despite the mock-exasperated rolling of his eyes. “Funny,” he said dryly before he continued his movements, still careful but with growing eagerness. The angle of his fingers shifted then, and suddenly a jolt went through Bucky, taking him off guard for a moment, an insistent strike of arousal that uncurled all sorts of desires.

“Oh, so that works then,” Steve remarked, surprise in his tone, barely recognisable, but a pleased look on his face before he curled his fingers again, pulling a gasp from Bucky’s lungs.

He couldn’t have come up with any kind of comeback right then, because his mind was struggling to catch up with what his body was doing. For the first time the instinct to fight what was happening resurfaced, because it was something he didn't know, something he couldn't find the right response to, couldn't control. But this was what he wanted, _exactly_ what he wanted, what he had looked for.

When Steve did it again, Bucky’s eyes fell shut and his toes curled into the mattress, and all he could think in that moment, with his heart rate picking up and his head getting light, was that he wanted more of this, much more, for Steve to _take him apart_ like this until he wouldn’t even be able to think.

There was just a tiny bit of stinging pressure when a third finger slid in, but that tingling, pleasant feeling was back a second later. Steve kissed his face, cheeks, chin, side of his mouth, and the fingers of his other hand gently raked through Bucky’s hair, sending an amazing shudder down his spine.

“That enough?”

Bucky’s reply came delayed, his senses too focused on touch for him to realise right away what Steve was saying. He hummed, stretched into the touches until Steve made his back arch again with his fingers and Bucky remembered to talk.

“Oh… no… what? Yes!”

A soft, breathy chuckle came over Steve’s lips, and he stilled the movements of his fingers. “Yes?” he asked again and when Bucky nodded, pressed a gentle kiss to the corner of his mouth as he carefully withdrew his fingers.

There was the sound of a drawer opening, some rustling and Steve shifting on the bed next to him, a tiny curse - more amused than annoyed - when Steve rolled the condom on with unpractised fingers. It probably wasn’t necessary for them but was supposed to make things a little easier. When he was done, Steve slid back between Bucky’s thighs, leaning above him, weight just supported on his elbows and lower arms but their bodies touching chest to chest, middle to middle. There was a gentleness in his gaze again, amidst abashment and hunger, and the fingers of his right hand were caressing Bucky’s face and hair.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this.”

A part of Bucky couldn’t either. This had been so long in the making, so long without them even really knowing, certainly without Steve knowing. And Bucky hadn’t ever really thought it possible, not until he had realised for the first time that they could actually be okay.

“Yeah… me neither,” Bucky replied quietly, eyes fixed on Steve’s, feeling a small, warm smile flicker over his lips.

He’d been so lost, for so long, and somehow he still had the most beautiful man in the world looking at him like this, touching him like this.

It was nothing he thought he deserved, but Bucky was still going to take it.

“Come on,” he urged calmly, his hips pushing against Steve’s body.

“Okay,” Steve nodded, the smile on his lips slowly fading, concentration taking its place as he shifted and brought one hand between them. And then, finally, very slowly and very carefully, he pushed in, past the tightness that twitched around him at the unfamiliar sensation. “You okay?”

“Yes, but you can stop asking now ‘cause I don’t think I’ll be able to reply for much longer.”

Bucky could feel it already, how he zoned back in on what he was feeling, words threatening to fall by the wayside. He was… Steve was… _inside_ him. It took his breath away, the feeling of connection alone, to be this close to someone, and it sent his emotions into overdrive.

Bucky tried to breathe deeply, arms winding around Steve’s shoulders, legs around his waist.

_This is real, it’s real, real, real…_

“God, Bucky,” Steve sighed close to his ear, leaning into the embrace, entering him deeper. He was still holding back, still giving him time to adjust, more than he actually needed. And that was so Steve, so much like him. He brushed his lips against Bucky’s, breathed into the contact and then, at last, kissed him deeply. His hips moved back, moved forward again in a fluid, slow push, and he became more eager with every following one.

“I thought about this. Lots of times, you know?” he said softly, his words paused only by the still slow rhythm. “I had no idea it’d feel this amazing.”

The words felt like water after a drought. His breath hitched, fingers tightened on Steve’s shoulders. “Tell me… please…”

Steve thrust forward again, a little quicker, deeper this time, and his eyes fluttered shut as his lips fell open with a soundless sigh.

“I thought… I thought you’d want to do it,” he said eventually, and it was obvious that it cost him quite some control to get the words out, his hips still moving in that slow rhythm of thrust and pause. Breathe and speak. “You still can if you want to. Next time. I… Jesus, Buck. I had no idea.” The last words ended in a moan, low and trembling, and he brought his lips to Bucky’s, an open-mouthed kiss, tip of tongue against his bottom lip, before Steve’s sealed his completely and he inhaled, deep and hitched, through his nostrils the moment his body jerked forward, much deeper and harder than before.

Despite his request, Bucky was barely aware of what Steve was saying. But he latched onto his voice, his tone, the hitch in his breath like he held on to his shoulders and hips, never wanting to let go again as they rocked together for what could have been ages. At some point his eyes had fallen shut, leaving him in warm shades of darkness and his body floating in the most beautiful feeling he could remember. Like nothing was ever going to reach him again, nothing could touch him, no one but Steve.

And Steve did just that, in his thoughts and heart as much as his body when he brought a hand between them and closed it around Bucky’s erection. It was then, with the touch drawing his attention to it, that Bucky realised how close Steve probably was, fully noticed the small gasps and panted breaths that left him. The rhythm of his thrusts was still controlled, deliberately slow but intense and speeding up with every passing second.

Bucky had no idea how long they’d been doing this. Only that it was hard to form any thought at all, and he had to chase them to grasp even one. His body felt vulnerably sensitive, strung tight, the hand between his legs making him shudder and arch, pulling on his strings in the best possible way.

And then he did remember what he wanted to say, what he had to say.

“Steve…”

Was that really his voice?

“I… I already loved you, way back when… Always have…”

A helpless sound left Steve, a sigh, trembling, drawn out, completely wrecked, and he pressed his eyes shut for a second, stilled in all his movements but that of his hand. Then he looked down into Bucky’s eyes again, his own shining in the warm light. “Bucky…”

Bucky blinked, tried to focus, his vision filled with Steve’s face, with his bright blue eyes. He was dizzy, and his vision had narrowed in on that face above his, enough that he couldn’t even see anything else. The hand stroking him made him push his hips up helplessly, caught between both sensations, up into Steve’s hand, back against his hips.

“God, Bucky, I’m…” Another trembling, long moan left Steve, and he was blinking rapidly against the urge to let his eyes fall shut as the words hoarsely stumbled from his lips. “Oh God, you’re so… you’re so beautiful. I love you, love you so much. Bucky, I’m… Jesus I can’t…”

The movements of his hand became more erratic, almost desperately trying to bring Bucky to the same release that Steve was so close to, and a new, violent shudder went through his body. Bucky reached up without thinking, curled his fingers around Steve’s neck and pulled him down for a kiss.

The thrusts became uncoordinated, frenzied, heat washed over Bucky like a wave and he slipped back under, with no control over himself left. It was intoxicating and beautiful, heart-wrenching and mind-numbing.

Bucky was shivering - moments later, minutes, he had no idea - when real awareness returned to him. He blinked, soft, panted breaths giving him oxygen. Steve’s weight was on him, still cradled by his arms and legs, but his head was buried against Bucky’s neck, gasping for breath there. Bucky felt almost disoriented, couldn’t stop the tremors from running through his body that was doing things that almost scared him.

Only Steve’s weight, his scent, his incredible warmth managed to keep him calm. Steve lifted his head, cheeks pink, lips parted, brow sweaty. The look in his eyes was like nothing Bucky had ever seen before or could remember, nothing he could even grasp fully or describe. Happiness, for sure, but somewhere underneath the ghost of sadness, of grief and loss that had been made up for by gain which found its outlet in a trembling breath - different from the ones driven mainly by arousal just now. There was a twitching around his lower lip and chin before he pressed his lips to Bucky’s, no lust, but nevertheless a need in the kiss that made Bucky unable to do anything but return it instinctively. It was unsteady, and he still hadn't managed to get a grasp on all the ways his body had slipped his control, so exposing and overwhelming.

When their lips parted and Steve looked at him again, happiness and relief were most prominent on his features, accentuated by a tiny quirk upwards at one corner of his mouth. Another kiss - short but sweet - followed. “I’ll be right back.”

Despite his words there was a small, short surge of anxiety when Steve vanished from his side just for a moment, but his heart calmed back down the second he returned. Steve cleaned them both up quickly with steady, gentle hands before he laid back down, at Bucky's side, their legs loosely entwined.

A short, huffed out chuckle came over Steve’s lips. “So this really happened then.”

Bucky's heart was back to beating slowly now that Steve's legs tangled with his, that they touched again, that his vision was filled again with those eyes like the sky and that smile like the sun.

"I think so?"

Another breathy half-laugh, and Steve shook his head softly before his gaze turned more serious again, one hand caressing the skin under Bucky’s collarbone. “You alright?”

Bucky thought he was. The trembling had finally left his body, he was warm and comfortable and safe. His gaze trailed over the lines of Steve's eyes, his lips, his jaw, following down his neck to his chest where he placed his fingers, skin and muscles under his hand heated and strong. A heartbeat, thumping away slowly like the most reassuring thing on earth.

There was just one, only the one thing he needed to hear.

"Is this real?" Bucky whispered, gaze flickering back up to those blue eyes.

A second’s confusion flickered over Steve’s face, but then he smiled, understanding and assuring.

“Yes,” he said, tone gentle but firm. “It’s real, Bucky.”

After long, long moments of just looking into those blue eyes, Bucky let out a soft breath. He slid closer and buried himself against Steve's chest, breathed him in and let strong arms fold around his body to hold him close.

Bucky believed him.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve makes good on a promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here it is, the final instalment of our fic. Again, a huge thank you to all of you who took the time to comment! Your feedback made our day on many, many occasions. And, we simply cannot say it often enough, the biggest THANK YOU to Indigo, who has been on this journey with us almost from the beginning, doing an amazing job as our beta-reader. 
> 
> It's both fulfilling and a little sad to finally bring this to an end as we had so much fun (or, well, angst ^^) in this verse. It's likely we'll return to it eventually. Before that, however, we have another big project in the pipeline: First Sons and Superheroes, a T.J. Hammond/Johnny Storm fic. We're currently editing it and should start posting soon. 
> 
> Now, enjoy the epilogue and let us know what you thought. 
> 
> xxo 
> 
> Verena & Sandra

The waves were rushing softly in the background, a mild breeze cooling down the hot August air. It felt a lot fresher up here than in the city. Calming and pleasant, Steve thought, idyllic even.

The house was just a few miles north-east of Southampton on a long stretch of white sand. It was older and a lot smaller than many of the stately mansions around it; more of a cottage, with white-framed windows, wood painted in a soft shade of peach, and a veranda going all the way around it where Steve was currently sitting at a small table in one of the two deck chairs.

He had a large glass of iced tea in front of him, and he took a sip, letting the cool, refreshing drink wash down the tingling of nervous anticipation in his throat.

“Good thing I just made a fresh jug before you got here. Charlie really could have told me that you were visiting, but I guess he didn’t want to spoil the surprise. And what a nice one it is.”

“I guess so,” Steve replied and gave the woman sitting across from him a smile. “I hadn’t even thought about anyone else but you picking up the phone when I called. I hope it wasn’t too short notice.”

She let out a small laugh and made a waving motion with her hand. “Oh no, not at all. I’m just so, so glad you came. It’s _so_ good to see you, Steve. Really, you have no idea.” Her smile was warm and her grey-blue eyes were shining as she regarded him as if she was unable to draw them from him.

“I suppose this is the part where I apologise for not reaching out sooner,” Steve confessed, a jab of guilt in his middle that was chased away immediately by another wave of her hand and a chuckle.

“Think nothing of it. I’m sure everything was really overwhelming when you came back, and you were busy saving the world most of the time. Catching up with your best friend’s little sister probably wasn’t on top of your priority list.”

It probably should have been, Steve thought, but there was nothing to be done about that now. And the main reason he was here for, this time, would surely make up for any previously missed opportunities.

They had made it to Anne’s house a several days later than initially intended. After the first few days that Bucky had been back home - filled with bliss and all the pleasures Steve had only ever dreamed of - real life had caught up with them. There had been meetings with Agent Anderson and other CIA officials, and even a second encounter with the President himself. It had cost Bucky a lot of energy, drained him of the positivity he had soaked up in those first days, and it had resulted in sleep disturbed by nightmares and a panic attack that had left Steve helpless except for calling Deborah first thing in the morning and scheduling a session the very same day.

Despite every little setback and hardship and Steve’s own inability to take all that away from Bucky, he observed with a deep sense of pride how well Bucky was handling it all now. How he didn’t let himself give up, and how he asked for and took what he required to deal with everything better and better.

What was more, Bucky believed in himself now, even if not always to the full extent he should, but he did. And eventually, he had felt well and confident enough to have Steve call Anne to come see her.  

“So, Charlie, is he your youngest?” Steve asked, not yet knowing how to break the small talk and get to the point: that Anne’s brother was waiting just around the corner.

“Yes. He’ll be forty-eight this fall. My oldest son is James, he’s fifty-nine. Steven turned fifty-five last month, and--”

“You named your second son Steven?”

Anne chuckled and shrugged faintly, a mix of warmth and mischief in her eyes. “Of course I did. And he’s damn proud of having been named after Captain America, too.”

Steve had to smile at that, averting his eyes for a moment and finding no response.

So Anne continued. “My third is Maddie, my only daughter. She’s had her fiftieth birthday last year. Then there are my grandchildren. You’ve already met Sean and Ally, but I’ve got five more and one great-granddaughter. I can show you some pictures if you like.”

Steve would have loved to say yes, but he already felt bad about Bucky, sitting on a bench at the beach for so long, waiting for Steve’s text message. They had talked about how to approach this moment. Simply turning up at her doorstep and surprising her with the sight of her long assumed dead brother had been crossed from the list of possibilities instantly. Even if she weren’t eighty-seven years old and might suffer a heart attack from such a shocking revelation, it was something that needed to be done more gently.

Charles, who was spending a few weeks at his mother’s beach house with his wife and kids, had been filled in over the phone. It had seemed the most prudent approach, and the shock wasn’t nearly as big for him as it would be for his mother since he only knew his _uncle_ Bucky from photographs and stories. It had been he who suggested that Steve talk to Anne first as Bucky waited outside, a dune with bushes and high reeds hiding him from their view from the veranda. As soon as Steve sent him the text message it would take him no more than a few seconds to reach them.

Steve could only imagine how nervous and impatient he must feel right now.

“I’d love to, but there’s something else I want to talk to you about, first,” Steve started.

Anne’s brows rose slightly and she propped her head on the back of her hand, elbow on the table as she leaned in. “Yes?”

Steve tried to conceal the deep breath he was taking behind a smile as he was getting ready for the words he had prepared in his mind and gone over several times, unsure if he had picked the right version. There was only one way to find out.

“You remember how Bucky was captured for a while during the war?” he asked, and Anne nodded, her cheerful gaze turning more sombre immediately.

“Well, there was something they did back then that was similar to what the SSR did with me. A serum that should make him stronger and improve his healing abilities. We never knew for sure, back then, but apparently it had worked. And…” This was just as difficult as he had thought, trying to get the information across as completely as he needed to but also as quickly as possible so not to agitate her in any way, should she draw the wrong conclusions.

He could see that dozens of scenarios and questions were going through her head already, of experiments that had been done to her brother, maybe of news that had no purpose to her other than opening old wounds. But there was something hopeful in her eyes as well, something that Steve thought, hoped, he was radiating.

“When I crashed into the Arctic I should have died, Anne. Any other person would have, but the serum made me survive all those years in the ice,” he continued, a soft smile on his lips as he held the gaze of her widening eyes. “Turns out I wasn’t the only one to have such a miracle happen to them.”

Steve could see how she was following his words closely, her brow furrowing the more he spoke. “Not the only one?”

“No,” he replied, and, taking a deep breath, added, “your brother too.”

A faint gasp came over her lips before she covered her mouth with one hand, fingers visibly trembling, and her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “Bucky? He’s… he’s alive?”

Steve’s throat felt tight, his own eyes stinging, but there was a wide, warm feeling stretching in his chest. “Yes, he’s alive, Anne.”

Another sound left her, a sob of clear and overwhelming joy, and her hands were still trembling, her chest heaving against the strain of catching an even breath between her tears. “Oh my God. Oh God. He’s alive… Where is he? Is he okay?” she asked, as she swallowed and wiped the tears from her eyes.

Steve took the time to quickly send the message from his phone.

“He’s okay. And… he’s here,” Steve replied, a smile spreading on his lips and his heart swelling with emotion as he watched her.

“Oh God. You, you had to break it to me slowly,” she half laughed, half sobbed as she gazed around, back into the house and towards the beach again.

And sure enough, a shape rounded the dune, dark against the bright sunlight of the early afternoon. Anne was on her feet, and, if it weren’t for the bun of silvery grey hair, nothing in her gait would have betrayed her old age as she hurried towards her brother who was only a few yards away.

Steve could see that Bucky’s steps faltered, slowed, and there were so many emotions on his face as he stared at his sister, wide eyes and - not afraid, but overwhelmed, and tentatively hopeful. Her hand had come up to cover her mouth, and then she reached out slowly, like he could dissolve under her touch like a memory, like a dream.

Bucky swallowed, and she must have said something to him because Steve could see him reply, the words swallowed by the distant sounds of the waves rolling up on the shore. Her hands cradled his face and his eyes drifted shut, happiness breaking over his expression like sunlight through a cloud.

Steve could not stop watching, even though he felt a bit like an intruder. He was sure they wouldn’t mind, but the moment between them was something so special, and very different from how he had met Bucky again after what wasn’t nearly as long for him as for Anne.

He could hear another sob paired with a laugh coming from Anne as she wrapped her arms around Bucky to pull him close, and for a short moment it was almost like a déjà-vu from times long gone, a girl with ribbons in her long dark hair and the same adoration in the way she hugged her brother.

Steve didn’t keep time while he watched, but he was sure they stood there for quite a few minutes, unmoving, just holding each other. Sometimes a couple of words were being exchanged and eventually, finally, Anne drew back to just look at him again.

They came back towards Steve eventually, but she neither seemed to want to let go of his right hand she’d reached for, nor to look away from him at all. And when they were close enough, Steve could finally distinguish her words again, the disbelieving happiness in her voice.

“I never thought - I’m so glad, so happy to see you, Bucky, I’m so glad you came.”

The way he was smiling, the shy but all-encompassing happiness, was something Steve was sure he’d never forget.

“Me too, Annie…”

Steve didn’t know what to say even if he had wanted to. Instead, he just looked at them both, a smile on his lips and a nod towards Bucky while he was sure his own eyes must be glistening, too.

“God,” Anne sighed again, shaking her head in joyful disbelief. “There’s so much I want to ask and say. I don’t even know where to start.”

“Well, the good thing is you two have plenty of time for that now,” Steve said, still watching the expression on Bucky’s face.

“You can ask anything you want,” he muttered quietly to his sister now, offering her this despite how nervous Steve knew he was about talking about some aspects of his past. It had been one of Bucky’s biggest worries leading up to this.

New tears spilled into Anne’s eyes, though the radiant smile never left her lips. She shook her head again, shrugging more to herself than to Bucky. Then, her gaze drifted lower as her second hand reached out to grasp Bucky’s other but withdrew the second her eyes fully took in the metal visible below the cuff of his long-sleeved shirt. “Bucky, your hand. You… oh. Oh!”

She covered her mouth with one hand, but the other didn’t let go of Bucky’s right. There was nothing of the disgust Steve knew Bucky had been fearing on her features, either. Shock, undeniably, but also compassion. “Oh, Bucky,” she said gently. “How… How about we just start by catching up? Charlie and Kate should be back soon with the kids. You can meet one of your nephews. Who looks twice your age.”

“Really?”

He looked unsure now, thrown a little by her obvious recognition of the metal arm, and if Steve knew him well - and he did know him well - he hadn’t expected to be invited anywhere near her kids after this. And so far, Charles didn’t know Bucky’s full story, either.

“I - Only if that’s alright with you, if they’d all be okay with this…”

“Oh, of course. Bucky, of course!” Anne let her fingers rest on his cheek again, caressing the side of his face gently. “Of course they’re gonna want to meet you. You’re family.”

Bucky turned his head into her caress instantly, instinctively, like he was still hungry for every kind of gentle touch, like it was such unimaginable relief for him.

“I… Annie…” He let out a breath and swallowed. “I missed you so much.”

“And I you. God, Bucky, I thought I’d never see you again,” she sobbed out and buried her face against his shoulder, laughing through her tears.

The sound of the front door made Steve turn his head, and a second later, a little girl’s voice could be heard through the house. “Grandma? We’re back!”

“Come,” Anne said, wiping her tears once more. “Let’s get inside and meet them. And then we’ll have something special for dinner. This is a day to celebrate, after all. And for everything else, like Steve said, we’ve got all the time in the world. You don’t need to tell me everything now.”

“Thank you,” Bucky replied quietly, but the smile on his face was back, the hopeful, grateful one, the one that still betrayed sometimes that he couldn’t believe he should have this, that he deserved it somehow.

He looked back at Steve then, and there was so much warmth, so much love there that it shone all over his face.

Bucky did deserve this, this and so much more, anything Steve could give him and help him get. After all the hardships of the past, Steve drank in the sight of Bucky being happy and was happy for him. _With_ him.

And Steve found that he deserved that too.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find us both on tumblr, Sandra under [leandraholmes](http://leandraholmes.tumblr.com/) and Verena under [saturnmeetsmercury](http://saturnmeetsmercury.tumblr.com/).


End file.
